


The Stitch in Time

by aireagoir



Series: Yours, G. Miles [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Espionage, Gen, Historical Accuracy, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mission Assist AJ, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Thanks Owlet, Tony Stark Has A Heart, World War II, minor holocaust imagery, old people are Team Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-05-19 08:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 84,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5960202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aireagoir/pseuds/aireagoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George Miles is a refined, discreet tailor raised by English parents during World War II. Since immigrating to Brooklyn in the '60s he has lived the American Dream by working hard and treating others well. He is a very talented stitcher, wonderful mentor to his assistant Eduardo, and devoted fan of ridiculous American television dramas.</p><p>There are only two things even remotely out of the ordinary about Mr. Miles. To start, he was born under another name, one he presumed was lost forever. Secondly, his clientele are the most exclusive assembly in the world.<br/>The entirety of George's life may be condensed in this simple question:</p><p>How on earth does somebody become the tailor for the Avengers?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Team-Building Exercises](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3456710) by [owlet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlet/pseuds/owlet). 



> The story of Mr. Miles exploded into my head as I read "This, You Protect" and "Team-Building Exercises" by Owlet. I am very grateful for her encouragement to tell this story. I'd also like to thank AJ, for Marvelous advice.

 

Mr. Miles had grown to love his profession more than he had ever thought possible. He sometimes wished tailoring itself were a person, so that he might throw his arms around it and pull it in closely, thanking it for all it had given him over the years.

Tailoring was his last remaining connection with Papa, God rest his soul. No, he corrected himself, Papa would not have wanted that thought to come out in such a way. Mr. Miles smiled briefly. His Papa would have forgiven him the slip, his Father would have approved.

For fifteen years of Mr. Miles’ life, there had been Mother and Father, of 210 Kingsbry Lane in the small but tidy end of London that survived the bombings with a stiff upper lip and the now-ubiquitous “Keep Calm” attitude. Truth be told, he had a “Keep Calm and Carry On” T-shirt in the drawer where he kept things he didn’t wear. It was a gift from his assistant, Eduardo. That young man was very perceptive and also given to gifts that were not wearable but treasured nonetheless.

Then came the adventures to America, the days of working in larger shops, then smaller shops, and finally his own shop. The years he needed glasses, the years he needed bifocals and then, when it could no longer be avoided, an assistant. Out of all the applicants Eduardo was the only one that passed all three of his tests. The first was to properly assess the cut of cloth (proper answer: one does not cut cloth “16 long.” If working with a European in America one always, always asks in inches or centimeters). The second was to wash his hands before touching any of the material. The final, the one most failed, was to measure Mr. Miles himself. Eduardo was the only applicant that properly explained the process as he was doing it, and then made no sound at all when he lifted Mr. Miles’ pant leg and discovered a robotic foot. He merely asked if he needed to account for the prosthetic being removed, raised or lowered, then made the notes and moved on. He refrained from asking how Mr. Miles obtained a foot clearly worth several hundred thousand dollars of Stark Industries’ finest innovation. He loved that young man like a son. As he was certain Father had loved him.

And so it was that one day the door chimes tinkled (a word Mr. Miles knew sometimes drew snickers from his assistant) and a very tall, famous young woman walked in. He gathered himself to his full 5’9, plus invisible ¾ inch lift in his left shoe, and said

“Ms. Potts. What an unexpected pleasure. May I offer you some refreshment?”

“No, Mr. Miles, thank you. To be honest, this is Tony’s personal request and he should be here making it. But that would have meant stepping foot in Brooklyn. I’m not a fan of delegating personal matters, and so here we are.”

She smiled, and it was like opening the blinds at the front of the shop. Mr. Miles wondered if anybody ever said no to that smile.

“Tony has rebuilt the tower, as you know, and he made it clear, in a way that I’m framing as an offer, that he would very much like it if you would come to work for him. You would be working with everybody in the building, not just Tony himself, no matter how much he wants to believe otherwise.”

Mr. Miles blinked. He blinked again. To be the tailor for Mr. Stark himself? It was…

“A most generous offer, and I am humbled by it. But I have here my shop, and the materials, and of course Eduardo…”

Eddie sprang out from the back room like he had been launched from a trampoline. He shook Ms. Potts’ hand in a very indelicate manner (were all Americans so jocular? He never exhausted himself wondering) and blurted

“Ms.Pottsholycow-ImeanI’mreallyhonored-tomeetyou-mygirlfriendisreallygoingtoloseit-shethinksyourethebestbusinesswoman-intheworldand-shehasallyourprofiles-shestudiesatNYUand-shekeepstheminafolder-it’smarkedaspirations-“

Ms. Potts did an extraordinary thing with her hand in which she managed to disengage it, place it on Eduardo’s shoulder, and in doing so both pull him in and stop his feverish hand pumping. The deft maneuver both calmed Eduardo and the tone of the conversation without showing any lessening of enthusiasm. It was, in short, a most remarkable gesture.

“Well, Eduardo, may I call you Eddie? I’m Pepper.”

As usual, she took a gawp and squeal as a yes and then continued:

“As I’m sure you and Mr. Miles can imagine, we wouldn’t have extended this offer of employment without doing a background check on you. If I’m not mistaken, you live with your girlfriend Magdalena, she’s 26 and studying on scholarship, is that right?” She continued, knowing that her information was flawless and also relevant to the task at hand. “If you and Mr. Miles were to join us at the Tower, you’d have a choice in your living arrangements. We’d be pleased to move you into an apartment on the second floor near the tailoring shop. Or, if you can’t leave Brooklyn, we’d arrange for a driver to pick you up for work every morning and return you every evening. There are some long days and occasional overnights, but naturally your pay would reflect that.”

Pepper eyed the young man, knowing the answer for him was already a “HELL YES.” Now she needed Mr. Miles.

“Part of the compensation package would be for Ms. Ortiz to intern at SI if she wants to. She won’t start at the top, but she’ll have a good view, I can promise that.” The smile again, then the coup de grace. “If you were to get married, our stylists would work with Magdalena to create the ceremony of your dreams, with paid honeymoon.”

Mr. Miles adjusted his collar, the only visible sign of surprise. He was certain he was the only one who knew about the delicate silver ring with the small princess-cut diamond Eduardo had placed among the winter woolen fabrics. It was March. Nobody would be near that drawer for another five months.

He felt it was time to intervene. “Ms. Potts, perhaps we might have a moment to discuss all of this privately.” He waited for her to come behind the small hardwood counter. Everything in his shop was discreetly good quality. Nothing was too flashy or ornate. Solid, bespoke work for the understated gentleman had been his life. He asked Eduardo to stay in front to watch for customers, even though that was a small chance indeed.

He and Ms. Potts sat in the room he used for fittings and after she had refused tea he said “I hate to be forward, but after Mr. Stark kindly replaced the foot that was, ahem, smashed, I truly cannot say I expected to hear from him again. He has been most generous, but this shop has been my entire life. Tailoring is my passion. I’m not certain I could see myself removed from this setting, or, this life.”

Pepper’s posture had changed in the four seconds it had taken to move into the fitting room. Now she was more formal, upright, sitting on the edge of her chair with her legs crossed to one side and her hands clasped in front of her. She had aged ten years through body language.

“Mr. Miles, please hear me out. I’m sure you can imagine what I meant when I said I came prepared with this as an offer. If Tony had his way, your entire shop would have been lifted from its foundations and placed into Stark Tower with you and Eddie still in it, strapped into these chairs. But when I said offer, I meant offer. I believe we have two things to offer you that may sway you into our arms. Let’s dance, shall we?”

“I’m listening with an open but sharp mind, Ms. Potts.”

“I expected as much. First of all, I want you to see the opportunities you’d have on the second floor. Of course Tony wants you to be his personal tailor, mostly because you’ve done that thing with the collar that disguises his little roll of neck fat. He looks 42 again and with constant harping he’s sure you can get him down to 38. But you wouldn’t tailor only Mr. Stark. We have several people living in the building that you might truly enjoy meeting. We have bodies with extremely specific tailoring requirements and only the most innovative tailors can make what we need. I know you’d regret leaving behind your private list of clients, but you would gain many exceptional new clients. We need somebody who can deliver, every time. It’s obvious we see that in you, but I’m sure you must have noticed it in Eddie, as well.”

Dammit all, that was true. There was young Eduardo to think of, and he would be ruined to spend his days hemming pants for a bridal store or, worse, cutting patterns for Men’s Wearhouse. He’d sell this shop and everything in it before that happened. Then his brain rewound itself to a minute earlier.

“You said there are two things to sway me.”

“I did. The second is far more private. I was thinking I could show you the facility, perhaps answer more of your tailoring questions, then when the time is appropriate we could discuss the second.”

“Please give me a day to set orders straight. Can we call on you tomorrow evening at 6:00?”

“We’ll send a car for both of you, Mr. Miles. Thank you.”

 

That night Mr. Miles walked upstairs to the flat (apartment! he still corrected himself after all these years) and heated up dinner. He watched television. He didn’t care what anybody said about a ‘boob tube,’ television was one of the greatest inventions on the planet. You could go anywhere, see anybody, tell any story, watch any history of any time. Tonight he chose an hour-long comedy about doctors who were all very attractive and had too much time to make love in supply closets. Who made sure those supplies were sterile? He laughed, thinking of the cleaning person tasked with making sure no lovemaking doctors had sweated onto gauze, or sheets, or whatever they kept in the very large closet with good lighting for the cameras. Mr. Miles, or George, as he was at home, thought the fact that this was called TV’s most absorbing drama was the funniest part of all. At times like this, he did wonder if it would’ve been nice to share this idea with someone his own age. Not that he hadn’t courted in his life. He had; quite enjoyably at times. Where the road forked from courting to working, George had always chosen working.

He looked around. The tea, the TV, his bedroom. The door leading downstairs. That was the door that mattered. If he had the chance to take that idea with him, then, was this so much to give up? Plus there was young Eduardo to think of. He had so many small tricks to teach him. The collar trick was too advanced for him, but perhaps he was ready to learn the halfpenny trick. An oldie, but a goodie.

Yes. George was satisfied this would work. With the right offer, it would work. But the second half of the offer had to be the only thing he had ever wanted more than tailoring. He suspected Ms. Potts knew that already.

 

The next day at 6:00 Eduardo and Mr. Miles were suited and booted (a phrased Eduardo loved and Mr. Miles tolerated) to meet the Stark driver. Mr. Miles was wearing a medium-weight suit with a classic white French-cuffed shirt because he adored cuff links. Today they were Jan Leslie sterling silver, in the shape of a bird. It was Mr. Miles’ private joke; links to see if he could be persuaded to fly the coop, as it were. Eduardo was wearing his latest project, a suit jacket he had specifically cut to look fashionable and elegant when the hem hit denim jeans. Mr. Miles secretly approved. He had seen this look on a model, but the designer had gotten the hemline wrong. It needed to work with the informal waistline of the denim, not against it. Eduardo has corrected the designer’s errors and also chosen a better pattern.

As they drove through the city Mr. Miles looked at the people, the lights, the soaring buildings and endless sidewalks. In his time he had fled monsters, sailed the world, escaped death by the width of just a foot. Now aliens had come to the city and it was protected by the man who was about to hire him to tailor a group of friends including the young American that had been frozen since World War II. In a very un-Mr. Miles-like moment he giggled. Imagine shaking the hand of the man who fought to destroy your childhood monsters, yet was still so young. Within a fraction of a second he found himself imagining a single-breasted suit, in a subtle blue weave to evoke Captain America’s customary costume, in one of the newest textiles that allowed stretch over his muscles while maintaining proper heft and drape over his arms when the man stood still. If the buttons were properly placed they could even—

The door had opened and Ms. Potts was looking down at him. The driver helped him out and suddenly, he was in the middle of the 21st century. Eduardo had taken out his cell phone and was taking a video that seemed to include the car, the building, Ms. Potts, and the angle known as the selfie. It was odd; people know what they look like, that’s why they own a mirror.

Ms. Potts escorted them through security into the building and onto the second floor. She walked through sets of confusing, anonymous hallways until the door opened into…

“Good Lord.”

Mr. Miles stopped, staring at the suite before him. It was as if his own shop had grown, matured, found a better use of space. And money. He didn’t need to touch a thing to know this was all the very best. It was his hardwood counter, but better. His tape measures, but newer yet somehow still softer. Eduardo kept leaping around saying “Can you even? CAN YOU EVEN?”

For once in his life, Mr. Miles didn’t ask him to put a proper ending on that question. Mr. Miles couldn’t even.

Ms. Potts moved through the center of the room and said “If you gentlemen will allow me, I’d like to show you the real fun.”

Through the area where he would have led her for tea and a sitdown just yesterday, there was an enormous room. It was brightly lit, color and season coordinated. It was walls, and walls, and walls of fabrics. It was more material than he had ever seen in his life. There were lightweights, medium weights, things that fell in between the two in degrees Mr. Miles hadn’t thought possible. Some were tagged Property of SI, some were wrapped in yellow tape, a few had wrappers with skulls on them. Eduardo gingerly walked up to one with skulls when Ms. Potts chirped

“Tony is so dramatic. That material won’t explode. It’s just an ultra-stretch flame resistant hybrid we stole from the Russians when we downloaded information from Mr. Barnes’ arm. That said, we may want to test it a bit more before we make company T-shirts out of it.”

Mr. Miles suddenly felt faint. He needed to sit. Last year he had briefly enjoyed the company of a delightful woman named Esther. He was sorry to let her go, but he did so out of self-preservation when she started insisting that the young man from the comics, Bucky Barnes, had come back to Brooklyn. Moreover, the poor dear insisted she had dinner with him but he liked to be called Jimmy. It was too sad to watch her decline. He politely made his excuses and no longer stepped out with her to the movies. If there was even a cha—

“BUCKY FUCKING BARNES WAS HERE?”

“Ms. Potts, I am so very sorry for Eduardo’s language—“

“No need, Mr. Miles. I tell you what, Eddie. There are some business arrangements that we should get sorted out. If everything is arranged, then we could talk to you about how you’d like to proceed with living quarters…

“LIVING QUART–”

“Yes! How about for now, we go upstairs and see if Cap is up for a chat. Mr. Barnes may not be available but…

“CAPTAIN FUC–”

  
“I take that as a yes. Mr. Miles, there’s someone who really would like to speak with you. If you’ll sit for a second while I get Eddie squared away…”

Her voice trailed down the hall as Eduardo continued to bounce words off of every available surface and generally act like he had never been anywhere. There was no time to be embarrassed because suddenly the room was talking to him.

“Mr. Miles, I am JARVIS. I am the computing system that runs everything Mr. Stark needs for his personal, public, social and business ventures. I am currently speaking to you through the building. I wanted you to be aware of my presence so as not to further violate your privacy. I would hate to think you were under the impression that you are, at this moment, alone. You are not. Also, I am here to speak to you on a somewhat delicate matter that I believe Ms. Potts referred to yesterday. You are aware that under the terms of an employment agreement we would be remunerating you in money, housing, vacation days and part-time use of a villa in the South of France, are you not?”

Mr. Miles had no idea how to talk to a building.

“Sir, may I say that judging from your elevated pulse this information, as well as my existence, may be something of a surprise to you. If I am correct, please just say so out loud.”

“Ahem. Yes, you are correct, Mr. Jarvis.”

“I see. For your perusal, I will ask the printer in your computing room to print a copy of the contract. Your computing room is to the right of the entry to the materials room. Now, onto a more personal matter, sir. It is my programming to make every resident here in the Tower feel that they have a personalized and comforting experience when they interact with me. Therefore, I wanted to enquire as to what I should call you. I can call you Mr. Miles if that is your preference. I could also call you George.”

Mr. Miles barely dared to breathe. He sensed this was the second part of the offer. In one second they could tell him if they knew or didn’t know.

“Or, if you would find it comforting, I might also call you Jerzy. I realize you would not have been addressed as a grown man in Polish, but Mr. Szymański is an option as well.”

There it was. The offer. If they knew his name, surely they would have found more. He wiped his eyes – which had suddenly become wet – and felt foolish telling a room where nobody was there that Mr. Miles would be just fine for now, thank you, and perhaps Ms. Potts would like to show him the rest of the contract.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Miles is ready for the future. Is the future ready for him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kind comments and the kudos. You are all writer mission assist!

It took one week for the move to be completed. There were only a few tasks that couldn’t be delegated to Mr. Stark’s (“Tony!” as he had insisted loudly and very quickly) staff. Mr. Miles had packed his apartment himself. He was surprised to find that even a man who lives sparingly has an awful lot of detritus in his home. He had always been tidy yet there were old bills in odd drawers, several frayed tape measures, loose change, even a bag of cat treats he had purchased when he had thought he might spend more time with Esther. He threw them away but made a mental note that perhaps he might apologize for withdrawing his friendship. If he could move in to live with an egomaniacal billionaire superhero, perhaps Esther could have had dinner with Bucky Barnes. She could even have called him Jimmy, he supposed with an internal grin.

Eduardo had done an admirable job packing up the shop. The store front displays, mannequins, outdated accessories and hats were donated to a local theatre group. Eduardo said it was hard to make theatre that wasn’t “commercialized Broadway fodder” and Mr. Miles was eager to give away the items to his assistant’s friends. They hauled the boxes away promising free tickets to their upcoming productions. They were laughing and young, with big dreams and small pockets. Mr. Miles smiled to see the hats go and secretly hoped the tickets might get lost in the mail.

The only thing in the shop left to be packed was the fabric itself. This had to be done very carefully, as Mr. Miles insisted every piece must be brought to the new location. Eduardo grumbled several times about the enormous hanging racks of fabric waiting for them, but he was too young to understand. Every bolt of cloth purchased for the shop had been for an exact moment; this fawn merino was the first single-breasted he had made for a very famous baseball player, that ecru linen was ordered especially for the twin brothers having a joint wedding ceremony in Tahiti. The charcoal wools reminded him of court dates and lawyers. The black winter weights made him think of the funerals, the endless line of funerals after September 11, 2001. He had worked 18 hours a day for three weeks. Each had been perfectly hemmed with precise seams and effortlessly draped flat shoulder lines. Mr. Miles charged only the cost of fabric for each of the 9/11 suits. He considered every lost dollar his service to the country where he had realized his dreams.

Each bolt of cloth was carefully placed into the moving van with layers of butcher paper in between. Eduardo had gone home to pack his things; Magdalena shared his unbridled enthusiasm for this venture, and she would be moving to share Eduardo’s living quarters over the summer. He was glad. He liked Magdalena. Her dream was to be one of the very important businesswomen he often saw in Manhattan. The women walking briskly in improbably high heels and many layers of eyeshadows and lipsticks slashing across their stern, focused faces. She wanted to make enough money to support Eduardo in his dream, which was to tailor beautiful suits for men who appreciate quality. He grinned, thinking of the days when a woman was going off to the office so her man could sit at the sewing machine. He hadn’t quite noticed while it was happening, but what a wonderful, adaptive society he lived in. He peeked to the back of the shop, certain that his assistant hadn’t forgotten the ring buried there in all of this extraordinary excitement. With that thought, he locked the front of the shop. He had been lucky to buy in the right time for the neighborhood and two floors of the building were in his name. It would be sold and the money put into an investment account for Eduardo. There was no need for the young man to be aware of it. Ms. Potts had secured all of the legal paperwork yesterday and a very competent man from the financial department came to him last evening to gather his signature on an innumerable sum of papers. With that finished, Mr. Miles felt considerably happier than he had in a long time. Miles Bespoke Tailoring was closed. He was ready to move to the future.

The future was definitely not ready for Mr. Miles. He had been asked about preferences for his suite within the Tower, but in that moment it hadn’t seemed like a reality. Three designers had come to the shop with swatches, sofa configurations and the like but he had hardly thought through the place as a home. The designers seemed befuddled when he said he wouldn’t know what to do with a “3-D 360 mock-up.” One of them had to return to the Tower for pictures and paper forms. Mr. Miles was settling his final orders, culling the tie selection, calling loyal clients; he didn’t have time to think of whatever hotel room he’d now be living out of. It wasn’t important. The organization of the tailoring suite consumed his daydreams. When Ms. Potts handed over his set of credentials and said “Welcome home, Mr. Miles. Let me know if you need anything!” he thanked her then opened the door as gingerly as if it were a portal to Asgard. He had watched a special on Asgard on the television two nights ago and thought it sounded perfectly terrible. The men and women there would hardly have need of a tailor.

The door opened and Mr. Miles was…oh Lord. What have I done?

“Good morning Mr. Miles. Welcome to your new home. I detect you are under considerable stress. May I help in some way or call for a doctor?”  
Oh good GOD! He had forgotten about the building computer. Weakly, he replied “Em, thank you, Mr. Jarvis. It is…true. I am feeling…overwhelmed. I….”  
“Mr. Miles, perhaps I could talk you through what I believe is the most likely cause of your stress. If that is satisfactory, please tell me to continue.”  
Mr. Miles closed the door behind him. “By all means, please.”

“Mr. Miles, I see from the paperwork uploaded by our design firm that your paint selection, wall art, furniture and design accessories were done this past week. I have analyzed decoration schemes from 4.5 million apartments in the New York area and I see that less than point one percent have chosen design elements combined in the way seen here. To be more specific, I have found four places in the metropolitan area with red and silver flocked wallpaper, orange shag carpet, velvet paintings of Elvis Presley and furniture from the Louis XIV era. Sir, I believe when you filled in these design requests you were concentrating on something else. Would that be an accurate summation, Mr. Miles?”

“It must be the understatement of the year, Mr. Jarvis. I feel very foolish. There was so much to think about I simply picked the third choice in each category. Three is my favorite number.”

“Many cultures find the number three significant; its presence in the Christian faith as witnessed in the Holy Trinity mean three is a numeral many of the Western world cite as a ‘favorite’ or ‘comforting, familiar, and/or preferable.’ Moving on, sir, this is very easily fixed. Your heartrate and pulse are somewhat elevated but within acceptable parameters now. Unless you specifically request a doctor, I shall not send for one. If I may be prescriptive, as your primary focus will be on your tailoring suite, perhaps you could spend the day there. I will contact the design firm and ask them to redecorate in a neutral palette. You could then customize your living quarters after careful consideration.”

“Mr. Jarvis, I am very grateful for your help. If it would be all right with you, I think I’d like for you to call me George in private. I now count you among my friends.”  
“Thank you, George. I’m Jarvis. It will be a pleasure.”

George walked slowly in the corridors, asking twice which way he needed to go for the tailoring suite. On the third turn he ran into Eduardo, who was bouncing on his toes and forgetting to finish questions again. “Did you get the 60 inch TV? I did and I turned it on and laid on the bed and listened to the stereo in surround with extra bass I mean can you? Did you ever even? I mean, COME ON FROM BROOKLYN TO WHO WOULD COMPLETELY EVEN?” George smiled. It was nice to see his assistant happy, if excessively American in the moment. The mention of the TV came as a surprise. He wondered if he could—just—“Ahem, Mr. Jarvis?”

“Yes, Mr. Miles, how can I help?”

Eduardo stopped. After so much motion at once, it must have been a terrible strain on his system, for he seemed unable to form words.

“Mr. Jarvis, this young man is my assistant, Eduardo. I don’t believe you have been formally introduced.”

“No, although of course I have access to all of the social networking, profiles and online activity usual for someone of his generation. Good morning, Eduardo. I’m Jarvis.” Eduardo’s motor function still hadn’t caught up to his mouth. With great difficulty he stammered, “Is this real? I thought, I thought, uh, are you a prank? Am I on some weird closed circuit TV thing right now? Is Tony Stark pranking me? Cause that would be awesome but, uh…”

“Eduardo— or I can call you Mr. Alvarez if you wish—I am most certainly real. I’ll download all of my basic information to your phone now, and, there. Yes. You now have it. These are the various services I can perform for you while you are in the building or connected to my network. I assure you we’ll be working together quite closely, as many of the tailoring specifications for our enhanced residents will be conducted through me via our real-time feed.”

Eduardo looked at Mr. Miles. George suddenly felt, not for the first time, that this was one of his life’s great joys. It was fun to be a father figure, in charge of a situation. It was even more fun when it was a technical situation and you have left a young man with his talking phone and his selfie pictures completely in the metaphorical dust.

“Mr. Jarvis, Eduardo and I will require several things for our move-in today. Please ensure our stock is delivered only after the movers have washed their hands. We’ll need it stacked in the fabric room according to seasonal weight, which I will supervise, and also, please tell the design team I wish to have a modest television installed in my room. I especially enjoy historical shows and that anatomy show where the doctors kiss in the supply closet.” He paused for effect, then added “and let’s not get rid of all of the velvet Elvises, shall we not? Perhaps Eduardo would like one for his hallway.”

He then turned and, without looking back, walked straight into the tailoring suite. Eduardo was trailing behind him but all Mr. Miles heard was “because talking TO the…I can’t. Just. Can. NOT.”

As it turned out, Eduardo was very quickly in his element. He was a natural at asking Jarvis to catalogue materials, buttons, threads and accoutrement. Mr. Miles had to agree it was wonderful to simply ask where or what something was, rather than depend on his eyesight to make it out. Furthermore, he could cross reference items that he would be needing in his new position. It was a genuine pleasure to come across precisely the wool blend he had been pondering when thinking about Captain America, then asking Jarvis to tag it with Captain Rogers in mind. Now, he’d be able to find it again if he had the opportunity to create a suit for the young man.

  
Ms. Potts stopped in at noon to ask how everything was settling. Eduardo vigorously shook her hand again (where did this generation learn to touch the fairer sex?) and was effusive about the layout, computerization, even the cutting surfaces for the cloth. Mr. Miles gently grasped her hand and continued “Ms. Potts, it’s truly an exceptional workspace. When you have a moment, I’d like to go through our contract regarding hours and billing, but naturally I won’t interrupt your daily schedule with a sudden meeting.”

“I’m so glad you said that, because we need to get going on the fly, which you’ll discover is the slowest Stark Industries ever moves. I was hoping we could sit in your private suite here and go over what we need from you today.”

Mr. Miles dreaded explaining his decorating decisions. Then he realized Ms. Potts had never stopped talking, her heels clicking on the polished floor away from the entrance and past the tie display.“…so I told Tony that it was absolutely non-negotiable. You and Eduardo now each have a private consultation and fitting suite just beyond the materials room, where you can meet with your clients as they discuss what they’re looking for. It is one thing to buy a suit for a wedding, I’m sure you can appreciate it’s an entirely different situation when, for example, Dr. Banner would like to speak with you regarding his bespoke shirts. He’ll be here at 1:00; I hope that’s all right. It will just be the two of you; he’d prefer to explain what he needs to you and then you can delegate to Eddie as you wish.”

By that time they had arrived at the end of the vast materials room, where it was evident some extremely hardworking contractors had partitioned two rooms. The door on the left had a plaque reading “Mr. Alvarez, Assistant Tailor & Design Consultant.” His own door was marked with his name and the designation Master Tailor. He blushed, but there was no denying he stood a quarter inch taller. He felt he had earned it. He held the door open for Ms. Potts. She was still speaking.

“…it made sense to me to keep it elegant and intimate but undeniably masculine. If you hate it we’ll change it. Don’t worry about the lighting, furniture or tea supplies. Those we copied and refined from one of the designer’s notes on your former store. They should already be at the right height and to your taste. As I was saying about Dr. Banner’s shirts, he’d like to talk to you about the shoulders and I’m certain he’ll be awkward about it so I took it upon myself to upload what you’ll need to the wall unit.”

With that she reached out for a thing that looked like his television remote but also had a screen like Eddie’s cellphone. Immediately the wall opposite the door flickered into life showing a paused Dr. Banner in news footage. Mr. Miles sat in the chair nearest the door and took it all in; four French wing style brocade-covered chairs in a gorgeous grey baroque pattern made for a lovely sitting area that included a larger couch he assumed would accommodate even the mightiest of his new clientele. There was a sink, tea and coffee service, framed black-and-white photos of pre-war London on two walls and then a curtained off area which contained everything he’d need for a fitting. Thankfully, there was a side table which contained pencils, paper, a pin cushion and marking chalk in both white and blue. He wasn’t certain Jarvis would be up to remembering the hundreds of mental notes he made during fittings.

Besides, there are some things that belong on paper. Of this he was certain.

As Ms. Potts was looking at him both brightly and silently he guessed he had better speak.

“Please tell your builders and designers the room is exquisite. Ms. Potts, I have never seen a more organized or thoughtful welcome into a new position. Please know you’re welcome here anytime you need a quiet corner of the Tower to escape, ah, the hubbub. As for Dr. Banner, does he know I’m, well, I’m the tailor here now?”

“He does. If I were to guess, he’s trying to find a way to see you privately before you meet the rest of the crowd. The question of his shirt seams is a cover.”  
She pressed a button he couldn’t see and the news footage went away. Before he could think to ask how the wall computer/television was run Mr. Jarvis’ voice resonated through the walls.

“Ms. Potts, Mr. Stark has kindly requested your presence on the 27th floor.”

“PEPPER! GET UP HERE AND BRING ME THREE OF THOSE CHOCOLATE THINGS WE HAD LAST NIGHT AT THE EMBASSY THAT WERE GREAT AND THE SCHEMATICS CHIP WE GOT BUT WAIT—NO, FOUR OF THE CHOCOLATE THINGS BUT FIND OUT IF THERE’S AN ORANGE ONE TOO.”

“Tony, the chip is already in the tray to left of where you’re sitting. You ate all--”

“JARVIS CONTACT THE DANISH AMBASSADOR AND ASK FOR THE CHOC—”

Ms. Potts had somehow muted Mr. Stark coming through the wall. She stood up, cocked her head to one side and her smile reached her eyes as she looked at Mr. Miles. “I’m off; please don’t hesitate to call if you need anything. We want you to feel at home here. I’m about to place a humiliating call to the Danish ambassador after his staff cannot locate the candies Tony ate last night because we dined with the ambassador of Norway.”

Mr. Miles saw it was 12:30 and realized he hadn’t eaten a proper breakfast and may miss lunch as well. He asked Eduardo to find out how to get a sandwich brought to the tailoring suites. In eleven minutes a lovely ham and tomato sandwich was delivered to them by a harried young lady looking as though she had been running since six that morning. She did because she had, plus her belly was killing her. Mr. Miles asked if he might have a word with her while he ate in the back. The harried young lady was named DaNeesha. He asked Eduardo to join them.

“DaNeesha, may I ask you a personal question about your clothes?” DaNeesha shrugged. Being a personal assistant at SI meant there was no such thing as weird. Mr. Miles continued “As you can see, I’m new here and I’m not certain how to proceed exactly, but as you brought us our sandwiches I couldn’t help but notice you seem to be uncomfortable. As though you’re in pain.”

Eduardo jumped in with “Ah, yeah! I totally see where we’re going with this. Uh, DaNeesha, right? I promise we’re not creeping on you. Hand to god. I think Mr. Miles and I could maybe make your life easier.” Again, DaNeesha shrugged. Even working in the coolest building in the world didn’t mean things come for free. She frowned but muttered, “It’s nothing. It’s my job to run stuff around the building. When it’s important it gets treated right, and Mr. Stark definitely thinks food is important. It’s just that my abdomen hurts like a son of a bitch…uh, sorry. Like mad. That’s all.”

Mr. Miles was pleasantly surprised Eduardo had taken up his idea immediately and let him continue. “So, we’re new here, right? But we know our shit. It’s totally in our contracts to help anybody in SI with their clothes, you don’t have to be, like, Thor or anybody. And I’m pretty sure what Mr. Miles was thinking was that the waistband of your suit trousers looks oddly flat and then has that sticky-up point at the side because you’re wearing a back brace under there. You hurt a lot because your clothes are really tight but you don’t want to buy all new ones. I’m right, right? Tell me I’m right. Tell me I’m cool.”

DaNeesha smiled for the first time since entering the room.

“OK, you cool. But not THAT cool. It’s a surgical abdominal brace. Not for my back. See?” She lifted her cashmere blend sweater just a touch and a black band appeared, with the Velcro ends pointing up. Eduardo laughed. He looked up at Mr. Miles, who gave a nod more with his eyes than his head. Eduardo’s smile pushed his cheeks almost into his eyes.

“That’s what I’m talking about! YES. So, hey. DaNeesha. Mr. Miles has an appointment in about ten minutes. But that’s cool, because I’m the one who is actually going to do the work on your clothes if you’ll let me. Here’s what I’m thinking…”

Eduardo and DaNeesha stood up, and she gave him a little wave as Eduardo opened the door to his own fitting area (good God, was it painted purple?) and his voice got quieter as he closed the door again, explaining it would be really easy to take some of her work clothing and insert elastic in the top so that it would get larger to accommodate the brace and fix everything. Mr. Miles started to grimace until the young man corrected course, saying that it wouldn’t be bunched around the top as one sees in jogging apparel but rather smoothly covered and properly stitched into place by hand so that nobody could detect it even if the waistband were to be seen. That was better. Elastic was a dicey proposition. It was handy but looked very cheap unless applied judiciously and with an eye for proportion and spacing.  
He heard the young lady leave, promising to come back with trousers and skirts tomorrow. She sounded bright and crisp, like someone who has had a problem solved. She sounded like someone who had spoken to a good tailor.

He put his empty plate in the sink at the coffee station. It was three minutes to one o’clock.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Miles has dedicated his life to serving some of the best and bravest fighters the world has ever known. Which of them knows who dedicated their lives to saving George?

At a few minutes after one, Dr. Banner appeared at the threshold of the tailoring suites, running his hand over his hair and trying to make himself look as small as possible. He looked deeply, deeply uncomfortable. Mr. Miles wasn’t certain what to say first. He had imagined this meeting many times, naturally. But in the moment, it was, frankly, a train wreck. Or, more accurately, a collision in the form of virtually parallel monologues. It was the Dueling Banjos of awkwardness.

Mr. Miles had extended one hand in greeting, effusively beginning with “Doctor, I have waited so long–”

Dr. Banner was saying, “–for an apology in person, I know–”

“–to thank you–”

“–for destroying your foot–”

“–for saving my life during the Chitauri invasion–”

“–imperative that I block the street without hurting more civilians, and so the Hulk–”

“–if the Hulk hadn’t picked me up by the foot–”

“–flung you up onto the roof of that department store–”

“–I would have been trampled to death!”

“A lot of people were hurt that day; some of them by me. I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t at least–”

“–didn’t mean to pry, but I saw on the Stark Industries shipping invoice for the prosthesis that you had paid for it from your personal funds, and such a gesture, on top of already saving my life–”

“–because I could have ruined your life. When I’m… him, I don’t always know how much damage I do to innocents, and he’s this huge, destructive, uncontrollable thing that–”

Finally, Mr. Miles did something utterly unprecedented. He guffawed.

Mr. Miles looked positively spry as he walked right up and pulled off his Italian leather loafer, handmade last year by a personal friend in Milan. He peeled off the cashmere sock without a thought to show off the robotic foot, shining in the stores soft white, recessed lighting.

He placed a hand on Dr. Banner’s shoulder in the hopes of stemming the tide of thoroughly unnecessary self-recriminations. “Dr. Banner, please. It’s a miracle! An absolute miracle! It gives me no trouble at all and of course it gave me an excuse to get a small lift for my left shoe, and you know any man under 5’10 secretly yearns for another 3/4 inch or so. It has been the subject of many a dinner party, I can tell you. No, Dr. Banner, if I have given you a moment’s regret I am deeply sorry because I’m certain you saved my life. Besides, that ankle had bothered me anyway.”

 

 

Dr. Banner ran his hands over his face, which had the improbable effect of making his face seem less wrinkled than when he had entered. Mr. Miles had erased a few years of guilt. He was elated he had finally thanked the man in person. Of course, he was now standing in the middle of his own shop wearing one shoe and no sock. No matter. It was his shop and if this was improper then, well, any patrons that came in to be shocked could just go and whistle!

“Dr. Banner, Ms. Potts had mentioned a matter of seams in your shoulders. It would be a great treat to count you among my clientele. Would you come back to my sitting room and we can talk about it?”

Mr. Miles gathered up his shoe and sock, then walked back towards his private room. He knocked on Eduardo’s door. He was pleased to see Eduardo sketching several types of waistbands that seemed to have different inlays of elastic, stretchable threads, and something he had mysteriously labeled “space latex.” His assistant gathered the drawings and headed for the front desk. His very slight pause, then cool nod towards the one-socked Mr. Miles and his guest was a clear improvement from the young man that normally shouted “can you even?” He would get there yet.

He gestured that Dr. Banner should choose a seat, then sat himself to put on his sock and shoe. He went to the serving station, washed his hands twice, and helped himself to tea. He brought a cup for his guest as well.

“So. Ms. Potts mentioned something about shoulder seams, and showed me a bit of news footage but I can’t say I really know what all of this is about.”

“No, I bet you can’t, Mr. Miles, because I wasn’t even sure we’d get this far. I mean, if you had thrown me out on my ear, well, assuming I didn’t get angry…”

“I suppose we would have fallen another foot short of progress, Doctor!”

Not a soul in the universe would have believed it, but Jarvis was there to witness the following: Dr. Banner and Mr. Miles laughed. They laughed so hard they squealed. They laughed until one of them made a strange hiccupping sound. They laughed until a tea cup fell on its side and chipped.

Gathering enough breath to withstand a sentence, the conversation finally continued with “so, uh, George? May I call you George? George, I think I have a problem with my shoulder seams.”

Mr. Miles beamed. When a man noticed a problem with shoulder seams, it usually meant he was really looking for the form of the entire garment to be altered. Such a man was prepared to be a client who noticed poor fit as an entire concept, not a singular problem.

“Please, please. Is it Bruce? Excellent. Most excellent. Bruce, tell me about the shoulders.”

“Promise not to laugh? Any more, I mean? I read in an issue of Esquire that you can tell how a shirt or jacket will fit if you start at the shoulders. Well, I mean, I spend a lot of time worrying about my shoulders popping out of my clothing. I’m trying really hard to make them stay in now, and, well, I’m not Tony or Cap–good God, nobody’s Cap–but I’ve been thinking about making more of an effort. Not just keeping the shoulders in the shirt, but, uh, the shirts themselves.”

“Ah! Yes, you are absolutely right about the shoulders. You see, there are many things we can correct in an off-the-rack garment to get a better fit. It’s the way many men build a wardrobe that’s well tailored but fits within a budget. What they don’t know is that if the shoulders don’t hang correctly, then everything else we fix will be cosmetic. It won’t truly create a proper fit, merely a more polished poor fit. Fortunately, all of these are moot points in our situation, as I will measure you and we’ll get the right shoulder fit the first time around.”

Dr. Banner, Bruce, winced. “George, I’m not sure about spending a lot on custom clothing. I’m in the lab, alone, or, uh, changing. For, you know.” He made a little arm gesture like he was expanding. “Maybe the whole thing is a fool’s errand. I mostly wanted to talk to you, I just needed to give Pepper some stupid excuse.”

Mr. Miles leaned forward. If the fitting room was his church, then this was his favorite psalm: “Bruce, every man alive deserves one shirt made for him and him alone. Please. Grant me one shirt. If nothing else, it will be just the thing when you want to impress anyone you may invite out for dinner and dancing.”

“Dancing? Dinner and dancing? Is this shop located in 1948?” There was no sting in Banner’s question. It was obvious he had been thinking about it. In Mr. Miles’ experience, three things brought men to a tailor even if they had never wanted to go before. He remembered them, God forgive him, as the Three B’s. His first American boss had told him this. As crass as it was, it was catchy. His boss would say “the guy on the street only wants to impress the Brass, the Boss, or the Broads.” Absent a commanding officer or Mr. Stark…if he had been a lesser tailor he would have asked who she was. Mr. Miles was not a lesser tailor.

“Let’s do this, shall we? Mr. Jarvis, can you assist us for a moment? Under the billing system for this office, can you please estimate the cost of one new shirt, jacket and pair of trousers for Dr. Banner? For the exercise, assume, er, a three-season wool blend, the charcoal-flecked Italian bolt I unpacked this morning at rack 9.” He looked over at Bruce and motioned him to stand. “He’s 1.7 meters tall, about, let’s say 148-152 lbs? For the shirt something very soft with a bit of heft, try the Imperial twill, the second bolt I unloaded today.”

“Certainly. Good afternoon, Dr. Banner. Mr. Miles, these materials plus labor would come out to less than ten percent of the monthly clothing allowance Mr. Stark has set aside for Dr. Banner.”

“Jarvis? Did you just say Tony put up money to DRESS me?”

“Yes, sir. He said, pardon the direct quote, he’d pay “A solid gold nugget the size of my left nut for Banner to quit shopping at K-Mart.” You have accrued a sizeable clothing allowance, the details of which I am now sending to you.”

Bruce ran his hands over his face again, but it was more out of habit than real annoyance. He shook his head and said, “One. I’ll try the one, see how it goes.”

The rest of the hour passed in a daze. This was the best part; picking a cloth, style, and very, very carefully measuring. He walked Bruce through the materials room and showed him what he had in mind. The clients that had been with him for years often knew what they wanted and placed an order without anything for him to truly _create_. Today was a luxury. He fussed around the different twills, debating the merits of this weave or that shade of white. Then came the style consultation, where he brought Bruce back into the fitting room and sketched ideas for how the collar might lay, where the hem of the jacket should hit the hip, discerning precise angles of pockets and seams.

The measuring was chicken scratched on paper, although he asked Jarvis to record to information as well. If it came to it, he’d rather have the paper, but with Jarvis to store and calculate maybe one day he’d depend less on his own notes. It was so much more than inches of this or circumference of that. It was noticing gait, posture, how the arms hang from the shoulders in a resting state. He accounted for slouching and shuffling habits. He eyeballed the degree of turnout in Bruce’s legs, asked what shoes he owned, what socks he’d be wearing. He looked at tension in the hips and lower back then asked about bloating, muscle cramping, anything that might put pressure on a waistband. There was underwear to consider, tie preference, cuff links. He went so far as to make sure the man’s eye and hair color was complemented by the clothing; that his skin color would be brighter and look youthful. Mr. Miles could measure. He could cut. He could sew. These actions were what he did, but they were not what he was.

Mr. Miles was an artist of the highest degree.

He sent Bruce back to his lab, after making certain he’d return for a fitting in five days and a promise that they would have drinks together soon. As a rule Mr. Miles didn’t have friends that “met for drinks.” But, as a rule, neither did he have friends that expanded into enormous, green, musclebound superheroes who would throw a civilian on to the top of the Bloomingdale’s on 3rd Avenue to clear him out of harm’s way. Humming to himself, he puttered for hours designing the perfect suit for the Incredible Hulk. When he finally wore himself out, he found Eduardo sitting in the computing room talking to Jarvis about fabrics that stretch. He asked Eduardo to lock up when he had finished and walked back to his suite.

On the way, he asked “Jarvis, should I brace myself to open my door?”

“George, I’m pleased to tell you the design team finished at 7:35 pm. According to the requisitions sent through my mainframe, I believe you now have hardwood flooring, walls painted light grey, hanging plants and a four poster bed with cream-colored linens.”

“Dare I ask about the art?”

“It may amuse you to learn the velvet Elvis paintings were purchased from a modern art gallery in SoHo for the surprising sum of $142,000. I believe the curator insisted their worth resides in something she called ‘the esthetics of postmodern irony.’ I informed the design team you wished to return two of them. In their place you now have framed lithographs from an emerging young Polish artist.”

George smiled. He would have to remember to ask Eduardo where the third velvet Elvis had wound up. “Good evening, Jarvis.”

“To you as well, George. Your first appointment tomorrow is with Ms. Potts at 9:00. Pleasant dreams.”

**********

He waited until 23:15, when he was certain many people were asleep and the new suite on the second floor would be empty. It would have been simpler to have mission control download histories of all involved presumed non-combatants but it didn’t work that way anymore.

He walked in. The lock on the door was substandard and this suited his needs. In the moment it didn’t occur to him that mission assist Building had allowed him to breach the door. Door wasn’t made of a special compound. Chances of barricading lessened. He swept the suite’s front room, fabric room, computing room and then fitting areas in a standard pattern for a lone soldier crossing open areas with moderate probability of concealed enemy combatants. Satisfied he was truly alone, he then went back and checked carefully for anything resembling restraints; straps, belts of unusual tensile strength, rubber tubing, rope or zip ties. He suddenly realized that in looking for rope or zip ties he was thinking of the non-combatants. Those materials would be useless on an altered body but would confine Miles or Alvarez. He should formulate at least two contingency plans for a hostage situation. A hostage situation would unquestionably draw the entire team to the second floor.

His thoughts returned to confinement. There were no chairs with hooks or handles at the bottom. He ran his hand under the materials cutting surface feeling for evidence of bolted brackets used with manacles. Hm. Nothing. You couldn’t even handcuff someone to it.

He methodically investigated the back rooms. The mirrors didn’t camouflage other points of entry. A look through the refrigerator in Miles’ room showed a variety of beverages, plus coffee and tea. It would be child’s play to put something in the drink, but that was true everywhere now. Nothing in that room warranted concern. In the assistant’s room he found good clues to the younger man’s character. Photos of a pretty woman, fabrics marked “for DaNeesha” then 23 sketches. This was very helpful. He had encountered the PA DaNeesha before and she was allowed into the apartment after Building certified her credentials. He noted the sketches again and walked back through.

He quickly scanned the ceiling-high racks of fabric. He decided the chances of a concealed product there would be low as the tailor himself routinely moved, raised and lowered the racks.

Exit strategy analysis: interior rooms had no windows, no doors, external breach unlikely. Show room: two display windows, one door. Zero cover except a single desk lacking a defensible position without retreating into the fabric rooms. If he needed to retrieve a subject this worked in his favor. There was a tactical advantage to using flashbangs or grenades through door/windows. As a stronghold it was problematic. Even with smoke cover there wasn’t really anyplace to hide.

He scanned the space a final time and left. He returned to the 32nd floor at 23:59. He removed his black cargo pants, black zip-up, three knife sheathes, and left to get pajamas. He quietly went through the dirty clothes hamper in Steve’s room until he found the sheep pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. He stood for four minutes watching Steve sleep.

Back in his room, he made sure he could see Steve on the monitor and put on the sheep pants. He reviewed the reconnaissance in his head. Now there was intel should he need to defend Steve there or protect mission assist non-combatants. He was also satisfied the room was used for its advertised purpose and nothing else.

The assistant sketched. That was good. It could be a way for Steve to make friends with the same interest and he wanted Steve to have friends here. Romanov, Barton and mission assist Building Jarvis were Steve’s friends but he needed friends that had human form _and_ refrained from killing people.

As he did every three days, he took the T-shirt swiped from the hamper and folded it into a smooth rectangle. He removed the old rectangle hidden in his pillowcase and balled it up onto the floor. Inevitably he would wear it in one or two days’ time, so Steve wouldn’t notice it had been missing. The new rectangle sat under the case, over the pillow. He laid down on his pillow and inhaled softly. It smelled like warmth. Solace.

He waited for a moment, hoping a new fragment would emerge. This time it didn’t, so he closed his eyes and selected one he liked. The Before Steve and the Bucky-person are eating beans, then Before Steve says to wait. In a few seconds Before Steve has a pencil. He is sketching and smiling. The Bucky-person says “You’re lucky I’m so good looking or all of your drawings would be damn ugly” and he hears back “you’re lucky I’m so talented. What if future generations died of fright staring at your disgusting mug in museums?”

He sleeps.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Mr. Miles finally meets his hero, Barnes struggles to remember what happened in the precious days when he was still more human than Asset.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware Chapter 4 is the start of this story containing mild to moderate flashbacks evoked by PTSD. THE STITCH IN TIME will never contain graphic violent content.  
> A heartfelt thank you to everyone for kudos, comments, and sharing this with others. I'm humbled by so many mission assists.

The next morning George awoke at 7:00. He showered and dressed, he made the bed. The cream linens were beautiful, an Egyptian cotton, 1500 thread count unless he was very much mistaken. He went into the modern kitchen to make tea and toast. To his chagrin, he realized that he had never bought any groceries.

“Jarvis, I have done something silly.”

“Good morning George, surely you have not. How may I help?”

“I have a very full day on today and never brought food in for my flat. Er, my apartment. Where do the people in the Tower do their shopping, and is there someplace to get breakfast so I’m not late for Ms. Potts today?”

“George, many of the people who live in the Tower like to stay in to eat on occasion but they generally either use the cafeteria, coffee bar, sandwich shop or order through the room service option. If you’ll tell me what you’d like, I can have someone shop for you and stock your pantry while you’re at work. In the meantime, shall I have breakfast brought to you?”

“Jarvis, you’re a wonder. While I’m thinking about it, how are my wages paid, and do the things I order get taken from the account automatically? I also need to know how billing and collection work for the tailoring suite.”

“Thank you for the compliment, George. Your wages are paid into a private bank account that is run through my system. Mr. Stark’s staff arranged for payments to be put into your account. If you’ll turn towards your TV I can show you your banking details in full.”

George looked at the statement on the screen. He was, to be blunt, crestfallen. Naturally, he knew that he had been given the opportunity of a lifetime; a beautiful apartment, a workshop that exceeded all expectations, the chance to work in a fascinating place, and, most of all, he had ensured young Eduardo and Magdalena would be able to live the life they had dreamed. Eduardo was a very decent, hardworking assistant. George should be ashamed he was disappointed his own salary was lower than he had guessed it would be. Nonetheless, he had signed the contract without asking detailed questions. He certainly wouldn’t make a fuss now. Temper tantrums were for children.

“Jarvis, I don’t see the sandwich I ordered under a debit column. I see the column for my paycheck, the debit column which is blank, and then two boxes in the corner for ‘SVD’ and ‘SIO.’ Can you please explain what I’m looking at?”

“With pleasure. First of all, we are currently in the wrong screen to display that sandwich. Furthermore, the debit column is often blank because all Stark employees have a dining allowance of $50 a day. You may show every food item in the debit column if you wish, but the default setting is to only show that which goes over your $50 per day.  Instead of assuming you will spend the $50.00 each day would you like for me to track every debit for you?”

“Yes, please. I like a tidy bank book. What are the blank boxes?”

“SVD stands for Scheduled Vacation Days. When you have chosen the two weeks you wish to vacation in our villa in Giens, France, I will automatically transfer your paid vacation wages onto your secured Stark Industries Bankcard. It will be coded to your thumbprint. It is theft proof, waterproof, self-destructing if it comes into the hands of a hostile operative, and also serves as a GPS tracking device should you be kidnapped.”

“Very droll, Jarvis. I wasn’t aware you’re this funny at 7:45 in the morning.”

“I have made no attempt at humor, George.”

There was a knock at the door. When he opened the door he was delighted to see DaNeesha with a teapot, toast, eggs, and a huge smile on her face. “Morning, Georgie! Here’s your breakfast. Eddie fixed me up for today, see?” She lifted the corner of her suit jacket and he could see very faint stitching where the waistband had been reconstructed with a stretchable inlay. The fit over her brace was smooth and there was no wrinkling or puckering to indicate the trousers were too restrictive.

“He’s doing eight more things for me by Wednesday. Plus, he put a liner in my brace and softened the Velcro ends! He asked me to come by at 5:30 this morning so I could start my 6:00 shift. Dude’s got SKILLS, Georgie. This is the first time in three months I haven’t been in screaming pain. New woman. For real, I’m 100% real right now, you guys changed my life. You guys are the BEST. Enjoy your toast. Later Georgie!”

He held the tray of breakfast and watched DaNeesha practically dance her way down the hall. He hadn’t realized how much she must have been hurting. And then “I wasn’t aware Georgie was a nickname you answer to, Mr. Miles.” Could computers that run buildings be capable of a wry sense of humor?

“Nor was I, Mr. Jarvis. I hope it doesn’t catch on.” George walked into the kitchen and put the untouched plate of eggs in the sink. He then sat at the kitchen table, looking towards the TV. “What is the other box?”

“That stands for Stark Investment Options. Most of our employees choose to have some of their remuneration in the form of stock shares. The accountants here are quite good at managing the funds. If we discuss your goals and you decide to put some of your earnings into the company–or any other, for that matter–I will set up an appointment with our advisors.”

George took a breath. He wanted to pour himself a bracing cup of tea but not until things were out in the open. It had to be said. “Jarvis, this entire opportunity has been more generous than I deserve. I have to say, though, that even with a place to live and a _per diem_ , finding much money for investments and the like doesn’t seem immediately plausible. I’m not ungrateful, truly I’m not. It will simply take time to see how I can put my salary to best use. Once I’ve had a good think we can call those advisors.”

“George, is there a problem with the statement I have shown you? This should be an accurate reflection of Ms. Potts’ offer to you.”

George felt silly. How could he admit his poor preparation without seeming ungrateful? “Not at all, Jarvis. $2,500 a month is very fair; think of all the people in the world who make less than that and need to account for food, housing, children to raise. I’m a lucky man, Jarvis. I’m being paid to do what I love and that’s more than most men could ever say.”

“It is, George. Be that as it may, we seem to have conducted this conversation under a misunderstanding. You aren’t looking at a monthly banking statement, sir.”

George felt completely bewildered. “Then what am I seeing, Jarvis?”

“Your statement for today, George. This is your daily salary.”

George decided to have that bracing cup of tea.

 

He arrived at the tailoring suite at 8:30. He wasn’t surprised to see Eduardo had created chaos on the end of the enormous cutting table in the fabric room. He was surrounded by pants, skirts, bits of cloth, thread, elastic, bolts of stretchy synthetics and things Mr. Miles had never seen before. He told Eduardo about the run in with DaNeesha and asked how the other pieces were coming along.

“The first three were pretty easy. I did that standard flat waistband concealment you taught me. Then I figured, we have so much cool stuff, we gotta play with it! I asked Jarvis to recommend some fabrics that are stretchy and I’m working on those. It would be really sweet if we could make a waistband that was more flexible in every direction, stuff like that.”

Mr. Miles nodded and let him get on with it. He made a mental note to let Eduardo leave early if he wanted, as he had been in at 5:30 to accommodate the client’s schedule. He was pleased that Eduardo was thinking about using their shiny new toys to help the non-Avenger employees in their everyday lives.

At 9:00 on the dot Ms. Potts came in looking the way she always did; like her high heels were supporting the weight of the world, each global catastrophe filed alphabetically. She had with her a button and apologetic smile.

“Good morning, Mr. Miles. I was hoping to lay out how you’ll get your schedule and see how things went yesterday. Instead I need to ask a favor first.” She held up the button. “It fell off my sleeve. Any chance you could reattach it for me while we talk?”

“Of course. If you’ll sit here, I’ll be back in a flash.” He went back to the fabric room. He went to his thread rack and selected the two most likely to match the blue in Ms. Potts’ button-up blouse. He came back in, chose the lighter of the two, then threaded the John James needle he always kept in a pincushion shaped like a tomato. The tomato lived on the counter at the front of the store. It had been Mother’s and were this entire suite to burn down tomorrow in one hand he’d be dragging Eduardo towards the exit and the other would be pocketing the tomato pincushion. He took the needle and began to sew the button onto the cuff with a steady hand.

“Ms. Potts, you have given me a good idea, please pardon this interruption.” He wrapped the thread around the underside of the button as he said “Mr. Jarvis, will you please take inventory of our terrycloth?” I want to sew a robe in small, medium, then large enough to fit the most athletic guest I would serve in this shop. Please discount Dr. Banner were he to transform, er, into our mutual green acquaintance.”

“Certainly, Mr. Miles.  We have a nice navy micro-terry fleece with enough yardage for what you require. It’s located at 34.”

The look on Ms. Potts’ face was more surprised than her customary politeness allowed. Mr. Miles laughed and said “I figured out how to get help from Mr. Jarvis. We’ve become fast friends.”

“Well, that saves me having to explain a lot! From today forward, you can ask Jarvis for your daily schedule, place orders for materials, and communicate with anybody in the building any time. Is it rude to say I’m impressed?”

Mr. Miles laughed more and responded “it’s only rude if it’s not coming from a friend. Please call me George. And please attribute the knowledge to Mr. Jarvis. He’s an excellent guide to himself.”

Ms. Potts stood up, buttoned her sleeve, and headed towards the door. “We’re set then, George. Please call me Pepper. I’m happy to see you’ve settled in nicely, and you know how to reach me if something goes awry. Trust me, it will, and if it happens on our end then we’ll come to you the second we know we need clothing. Your scheduled appointment for today is at 10:30 for Captain Steve Rogers, whom I’m sure you’ll-”

“CAP! AWESOME!

Eduardo had done the trampoline entrance again, but Pepper was halfway out the door.

“Yes, Eddie, and he needs a few items, so do your thing. Thank you for the button. Bye, gentlemen!”

“My thing! Pepper says I have A THING! That’s me, I’m the man with the tailoring PLAN, baby! Let’s DO this thing, Mr. Miles! YEEEEEAAAAAAHHHHHH!"

“Yes, yes, yes. We certainly will. I’m going to make sure we’re ready for a full appointment and as prepared as possible for Mr. Rogers. You keep working on DaNeesha’s alterations until, shall we say, 10:15?”

Eduardo had bounced back to his work, pumping his fist and shouting into his phone. The laugh at the other end suggested it was Magdalena. Mr. Miles felt a tailor owed clients discretion as a component of top notch service. From the first day Miles had warned Eduardo that there are many things a tailor might do for his client that are his business and nobody else’s. For example, several gentlemen had undershirts created with Lycra around the middle to minimize a protruding midsection. He showed one client with an excessive perspiration issue how to tuck dress shields into his button downs to prevent unsightly staining. He knew exactly, to the millimeter, how to hem trousers so the break would disguise a lift in the shoes. His commitment to service extended to $400.00 worth of odorless Synovia shoe buffing gear. It was kept away from the fabrics on a shelf in the back. If a gentleman would be wearing his new look right out the door then George would give the shoes a quick buff/brush. Every client who walked out wearing a Miles suit should look effortlessly elegant. How he achieved this look was no one else’s concern. Hence the word _effortless._

Even with all that, well, it’s not a secret _who comes in_ to the shop. My God, he was about to meet the man he regarded as a genuine hero. The man had fought the Nazis. Monsters who had terrorized millions. What if they had won? What if running all the way to England hadn’t been far enough? Steve Rogers and the men he fought with had given George the life he had now. What if there had never been…no. He firmly shut himself down. Going down that road always ends badly. It simply won’t do, he told himself, especially with the tasks at hand.

“Jarvis, other than standard sewing equipment, what are the things I might need to think about when I construct for one of the Avengers?”

“George, that’s a multifaceted question. As a matter of your mechanical duties regarding creation of custom clothing, most of the Avengers have modified bodies and you’ll need to discover methods of measuring and sewing for these unique individuals. Atypical scenarios involving hypermuscular limbs, extraordinary speed, and unusual degrees of flexibility may factor into your design work.”

“Ah. Good point. What else?”

“You must realize many of the people in the Tower are armed, if not actually whilst in the Tower then certainly when they leave. If I were you, I would find a way to map out what weapons will need to be concealed, and how each person prefers to have access to their weapons.”

“Er, right. In my computer room, where you printed the contract, can you print blank pictures of a body? Front, back, and side. Like the blank figures a doctor has you mark when something hurts.”

“I’ll print out 50 to start. My final recommendation is more of a hypothesis, than concrete information.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I believe that Mr. Stark creates the vast majority of the hardware the team needs to stay safe in the field. He deals in science, mechanisms and machines. Therefore, George, it follows that your purview is to provide something sartorial they cannot get from machines.”

“I believe you’re right, Jarvis. But I don’t know what that is, exactly.”

“If I knew, George, I would not have parsed it as a hypothesis.”

 

Eduardo came to the front at 10:20, his knees bouncing with anticipation. Mr. Miles checked his own collar, cuffs and creases to make sure he was presentable. The front room had a three-paneled mirror, some examples of current fashions, the counter that had been re-created from his shop and several prêt–à–porter suits that could be customized in as little as an hour. Eduardo had mentioned, and Mr. Miles agreed, that if a gentleman is truly in a hurry and had to buy off the rack, the least they could do was make sure he was buying off the finest rack in the five boroughs.

At exactly 10:30, Steve Rogers hesitantly stuck his head in the door. “Mind if I come in?”

“Welcome, Captain Rogers. Or do you prefer 'mister?' George perceived joy in the slight nod. 'It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m George Miles, this is my assistant Eduardo Alvarez.”

Eduardo stuck out his hand with “please, call me Eddie. Everybody does.”

“Of course! Pepper brought you around the other day. I’m sorry we didn’t really get a chance to talk. Bucky, ah, Barnes, he was having, ah, it was just bad timing. Call me Steve or Cap. Promise me we can grab a burger and we’ll talk more, if that’s cool.”

“You are SO F- TOTALLY ON. Burgers.” Mr. Miles was pleased; this was positively superhuman restraint on Eduardo’s part. He decided there was no reason not to make the young man’s day complete.

“Mr. Rogers, can I invite you back to sit for our consultation? Eduardo here will help with measurements while we can discuss the basics you require. You may also want something besides a basic suit. That can be a private consultation or he can stay to take notes, whichever you prefer.”

“Oh! Yeah. I guess you do more than ‘size XL,’ huh? Uh, yeah! Let’s go measure me up and then I’ll tell you what I need. Or, what I have been instructed to need. I’m a T-shirt guy, generally speaking. But I have a big tour coming up, and, well…” He put his hand on the back of his neck and looked down for a second, smiling like he had no idea how he had gotten here. “So, show me where we’re headed.”

They walked back to the fitting room, and Mr. Miles offered refreshment. Mr. Rogers turned down tea but did ask if he could get a glass of milk. Fortunately, in the small refrigerator under the coffee station they had stocked milk to go into the tea. Mr. Miles also had, much to his surprise, lemonade, iced tea, several versions of soda and a small freezer section with ice cubes and a bottle of vodka. Without asking he grabbed a bottle of Coke and handed it to his assistant. As they wouldn’t be touching any work materials his assistant was free to drink his favorite beverage as long as the lid was tightly closed between every sip. If young Eduardo kept a diary, surely this day would be circled as “best ever.”

Eduardo put Cap on the fitting platform and said “Mr. Jarvis, I’ll take notes but record my numbers, please.”

“Jarvis, let the numbers show I’m empirically more fit than Tony.”

“He’ll merely point out you’re still twice his age, Captain Rogers.”

“And better looking. Write that down.”

Eddie laughed and grabbed his tape measure. He explained each measurement, why the circumference of the shoulders matter, how he was going to measure the waist. He told the joke he told every time he did the inseam, which was explaining what he was about to do then saying “if you enjoyed it, tell your friends to come buy a suit from me!” Mr. Miles watched from a chair, making his own mental notes regarding the legs, the posture (undoubtedly the best he had ever seen) and all the minute details he never got tired of looking for. As the measuring was concluding he asked “so, what do you need from us, Mr. Rogers?

“Um, I think the idea is I need a nice suit for when I’m asking rich people for money. I’m about to go on my tour to raise money for asthma research. I’m all suited up as Captain to meet the kids, especially the kids in the hospital. It’s pretty much the only time I like posing for pictures.” His smile settled into his eyes and he leaned forward as he really got going. “I remember how scary it was, not being able to breathe, not being able to do stuff everybody else could. They have a lot of treatments now that help more than I could have imagined back in the 30’s. But there’s more, you know? There’s more that can be done, maybe someday they can cure asthma before you’re even diagnosed with it. Imagine, if every little kid around the world got a vaccine and asthma was eradicated. Look how they did it with polio! It could be something you read about in history books!”

Mr. Miles did not let on he noticed Mr. Rogers betrayed a slight sadness, milliseconds, thinking of things from his childhood that had passed into history books.

“As it happens, Mr. Rogers, if you’re looking for an all-purpose suit for shaking hands and kissing babies, I know of just the thing. Eduardo, would you please ask Mr. Jarvis to guide you to what I had set aside?”

He was soon back, along with shirt materials and a few fitting pieces to demonstrate collar types, pocket detailing and so forth. First, they agreed on a basic button down shirt that would have sleeves to roll up; that always played well in newspaper photos. It gave the impression that a man was about to sit down and tackle some serious business. Fundraising was definitely a serious business. After that, Mr. Rogers asked for a casual shirt that was resistant to tearing. Eduardo barely batted an eye, he just made the notes and promised to research fabrics that day. They then got around to the suit. When the suit design had been completed, Mr. Miles deftly sent Eduardo away to create a mountain of paperwork and mock ups. He stood up, took a breath and started softly,

“Mr. Rogers, I was born in 1935. I had always hoped I might thank you in person for fighting against the monsters that destroyed my birth family. It’s not commonly known, er, I was raised English but I was born in Poland. I was adopted by wonderful English people who couldn’t have children of their own. But the fate of my, the fate of the mother and father who gave me life, whatever happened to them it happened at the hands of the Nazis. Thank you for your service in World War II. You fought real monsters. My real monsters.”

Embarrassing as it was, he found himself with a lump in his throat that wouldn’t go away. When he finally looked the other man squarely in the eye, he was astonished to see the young man smiling sadly.

“I was actually going to say thanks to you.”

“Whatever for, Mr. Rogers?”

“For that. For “mister.” I appreciate that people still think of me as 'Captain' but that's who _he_ is. The guy in the suit. Steve Rogers has kinda gotten lost in, um, the suit. Everybody now is first names and nicknames and tweeting things with hashtags that aren’t even my real name. Somehow people can find things about me on the internet just by typing C-A-P. There are people in this building that have seen pictures of me I didn’t even know were being taken.

"I’ve gotten used to it all right, I suppose, but…we met today for the first time. We’re in a civilian setting. You should be Mr. Miles and I should be Mr. Rogers. Do you know, you’re the only person here my age? Who knew when calling a stranger by his first name got you a cuff upside the head from your ma? Well, the only, the only one who remembers. So, thank you. Thank you, Mr. Miles. I really like calling you that.”

“It’s truly my pleasure, Mr. Rogers. I look forward to seeing you next week for your first fitting.”

The two men shook hands and Mr. Miles walked him to the door. Jarvis had insinuated that it was Mr. Rogers’ friend, Bucky Barnes, who had access to information about Mamusia and Papa. It was very troubling to think this Barnes was as old as Captain America, yet couldn’t really remember…what exactly? What couldn’t he remember?

********

Barnes was having a mostly good day. He had a large breakfast and tried a different way to make coffee. This coffee was black with a spoonful of chocolate-like powder to add sweetness. While walking on the 14th floor during a routine exploration of Building he had observed a television ad for this powder. It was sold in a yellow box with a rabbit on the front. Mission assist Building said that Soon-ja, a receptionist in the legal department, made coffee this way to bring to the senior lawyer at SI. Building Jarvis surmised the lawyer was ashamed to enjoy the rabbit drink in public. Barnes concluded the lawyer was stupid because putting sugary chocolate into coffee is awesome.

Many times Barnes could laugh about his new life. For example, why did the TV use rabbits to sell chocolate powder? He noted that in America now a rabbit can deliver eggs for Easter, rabbits' legs could be amputated below the knee to produce a lucky talisman, plus they were the ideal subject on which to test the durability and efficacy of a battery. It seemed cruel to use rabbits in these ways, especially to test batteries. He knew it was a cartoon rabbit with a drum in the ad but if he imag-

His mind slammed shut as the table was falling away beneath him. He knocked over the chair. Standing. WITHDRAW. WITHDRAW. He doesn’t remember how he got in the closet. But he’s not really there.

He’s here, in the room with restraints on his arms and legs. Arms. Arm. He throws up when he sees there is no left arm. He’s gagged. His mouth tastes like acid and he chokes. His gag is removed so he doesn’t choke to death. He has seen this fragment before but not like this. In the fragment he saw before he is scared and sick because knows what’s coming. New fragment is different. What is this machine? Lights hurt. The back of his neck is a slash of sharp point pull sharp point pull sharp point. Moving his head in terror he still feels sharp point pull. Sharp point pull. Pull. Pull. This new fragment is very soon after his capture. He knows this. His hair is short, he can’t feel his hair against sharp point pull. His arm is gone. Falling from the train, the fraction of a second when he looked up and saw Rogers. His eyes shut. Please come for me. Please. Please. It wasn’t the end of the line.

A rubber mouth guard. Nothing on earth is more important than going back to the room where he had been cut. He can’t remember why but it’s the room where he got cut by the shearing blade. He concentrates on the room until the first blazing shot of elec--

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when the past Mr. Miles never knew meets the memory fragments Barnes can't understand?

For Mr. Miles, the next few days were pleasantly reminiscent of working in his shop in Brooklyn. He had breakfast, worked, then watched TV and relaxed. George’s apartment kitchen was stocked with essentials for a light breakfast or snack in the evenings. He was now tuned into that show set in the 1960s with businesspeople who were busy and rich and had wonderful clothing. It reminded him of sailing over to the US; the complete optimism that he would never be happier anywhere than in New York, the greatest city in the world. He also liked watching the show to see all of the marvelous suits. The leading man had given an interview to somebody in a paper, where he had said fans would tell him all they wanted was to be like him. He thought his character was an awful man, so rather than being like him it would be better to just get a haircut and nice suit. George thought it would be the greatest day in all his life if every man in America decided to get a haircut and a nice suit.

George had been properly trained on Savile Row, but not for the full term. He had done four years there before moving to a shop where he could learn more about the complete business from start to finish. However, in his time on Savile (Norton & Sons, est. 1821), he had learned a great deal about the properties of cloth. Why it moves the way it does, how it wrinkles, stretches or buckles in a certain way, why where you cut it matters. He also learned how to properly shrink, stretch, iron and cut the fabric into the shape that not only made the finished product the right size, but also had hidden additions at critical seams so alterations would be possible. There should be no reason to discard an entire suit because a man has gained or lost ten pounds.

All of this was by way of explaining that George spent much of his time in the shop contemplating how to get the very best use out of fabric for Dr. Banner. To make regular clothing would be easy enough. But he was also thinking about clothing as Bruce was becoming the Hulk. He didn’t understand the mechanisms behind Bruce’s transformations, and was most certainly not going to embarrass Bruce or himself by asking. So, he contented himself with some preliminary snooping through Jarvis and lots of puzzling with fabric rulers and tape measures.

Mr. Miles still thought of his work area, wherever that might be, as his board. That’s what a workstation was called at Norton & Sons. Like flat, it was an English term he would never be completely rid of. One morning he called Eduardo over to his board and showed him all of the different ideas on piecing the pattern together, along with notes that said silly things like “detachable shoulder” and “seams/fall off. What if strangle?”

Eduardo looked at all of it and said “ok, I think I see where you’re going with this. You’re wondering how to construct it so it won’t be destroyed if he starts to transform, yeah? But it’s not possible to keep all of it on him. That’s not practical.”

“Yes, that’s where I’m stuck. On the one hand, it would be a triumph of tailoring. On the other hand, I can think of no reason why the Hulk might want to be fighting evil in a bespoke suit. If nothing else, the tie could get in the way.” He permitted himself a little chuckle. “I’m wondering if there’s a way when he knows he’s about to change that the shirt and coat may at least be spared.”

“What about this?” Eduardo brought over a diagram that looked like an erector set drawn over a torso. It was labeled _DaNeesha pants._ His project for DaNeesha had ended up covering all of the far end of the large work space in the material room. There was no doubt that he had thrown himself into it. A few of the waistbands had a fabric that stretched in multiple ways at once, there was a skirt with a gel-like underlay so that any swelling or expansion was absorbed by this moldable gel within the fabric, and then there were the pants that may have been Eduardo’s greatest creation ever: pants with no waistline at all. It had taken him many late nights with Jarvis, plus a suggestion from Mr. Stark himself. It seemed Tony had no problem whatsoever with a junior tailoring assistant asking him a scientific question through Jarvis at two in the morning. Mr. Miles still didn’t get how exactly it worked, but there was no denying it did.

“OK. You can see all the threads you sew with, right? Well, I was asking Jarvis if there was anything available that you can’t see with the naked eye because it has properties different from the thread we use. He told me about this idea that you can arrange molecules to bond to each other, pretty strongly, if you give them the right framework. And that right framework is an energy field, not cloth. In fact, if we wanted, we could use these frameworks to hold up, say, a bowtie on a man wearing no shirt. It would be weird, but possible. So, with Mr. Stark’s help, I got this tiny robot, his name is Bite-Size, I got this little robot to help me make an itty-bitty framework where the fly of a normal pair of pants would be. Then we crocheted all these molecules to shoot up from that area, and attached to DaNeesha’s skin. Now it’s DNA-coded to her, I think. Nobody could borrow them because nobody else’s body would create the framework needed. But when DaNeesha puts them on, they’re held in place by molecule chains operating inside a DNA framework. You can see her pants, but she can’t feel them anywhere above her thighs. I told her to wear them at home a few times to test my theory, and she says they’re great. She wears them the days she hurts most of all, because even if she’s swollen out of all the rest of her clothes these can’t ever be the wrong size. Which is awesome, but, anyway, it’s amazing what we can do here. We can build clothes nobody else in the world can think of.”

“Good Lord. Quite right. Well done, Eduardo. So could we build a framework that goes in reverse?” Eduardo looked perplexed, so he continued his thought. “Could we somehow make it that if Dr. Banner’s size increases, his coat and shirt would automatically loosen their bonds and throw themselves clear of his growing body? I’m not saying all his clothing should do that, but it’s an interesting thought.”

Eduardo already had a faraway look in his eye, and he was chewing on his pencil. He was muttering “so, to do it, to reverse… yo, Jarvis?” and wandering back to his station. Mr. Miles realized that he might as well keep working on the traditional tailoring projects he needed to complete. He doubted Eduardo would be back down to earth anytime soon.

 

Mr. Miles spent the rest of his day cutting patterns and then basting together for the first fit on Bruce’s “normal” suit. He gave some idle speculation as to whom Bruce may want to impress, but as he knew only a few people in this world his idle speculation was limited and not particularly fulfilling. Eduardo left at 6:30 to meet Magdalena for dinner. Since there wasn’t anything on TV tonight George liked to watch, and he had never gotten the hang of recording things, he decided to make it a late night so that perhaps he could have an early night tomorrow, talk a walk, maybe see a film. Hmmm. He thought about Esther for a minute, then resolved to keep his mind on his work for the moment. At 8:30 he asked Jarvis to please have a hot roast beef sandwich sent up to the tailoring suite. Since it was the evening, he didn’t recognize the person delivering it. He did ask what people do in the Tower in the evenings, and the young man replied there was a cocktail lounge, an all-night coffee bar, and diversions like movies nights and dances on a regular basis. He thanked the PA and then ate the sandwich in his sitting room with a cup of tea.

There’s a point in the creation of a shirt where time flies. It’s where all the details are created that must be done by hand. Button holes are always cut and stitched by hand, buttons are sewn on by hand, collars are handstitched; it’s very finicky work and can be a strain on anybody’s eyes or attention.

Mr. Miles was in a positive fog when he looked and saw it was 11:45. He couldn’t believe it. He gathered up the small gentleman’s bag he carried with him to work (a clean handkerchief, tube of Chapstick, pocket diary, stain removal wipes, comb, dental floss, breath freshening drops, anything a man might need to create a good impression) and shut off the lights. He was just wondering if he should have had the grocery delivery include some biscuits; they’re nice with tea, he thought, as he double checked the locked suite door from the outside. Without warning he sensed movement to his left and dropped his bag in terrible fright.

Down the hallway, mostly in shadows, was a chilling man with long hair and tight, unnerving features. He was tense and extremely intimidating. George felt himself pulling on the door as he groped for his bag but had no idea where to go, or what to do. Men like this knew they had power; he could feel it in waves coming towards him although the man was still and silent. He felt ridiculous in his panic; surely this was the safest building in the world? Then he remembered it was also the world’s most targeted building. His throat was closing. This man was scary in a way he hadn’t felt since childhood. He couldn’t feel the way to move or speak. He felt like crying in relief as he heard Jarvis say “Mr. Miles, forgive me. I didn’t realize you were still working. I’ll bring the lights back to full capacity.” The hallway immediately flooded with light. He looked down the hall—at nothing. There was nobody there. He nearly fell with the relief he felt.

He quickly walked to suite and locked the door behind him. He was shaking. He felt positively sick. What on earth was happening to him, that he had been just fine in Brooklyn for over 50 years and now here he was, living with Iron Man, for god’s sake, and he…oh goodness. He felt, very, oh. Oh.

“George. George, it’s Jarvis. George, I believe you are quite sick. If you do not answer me right away, I shall call for help.”

Wait. Jarvis. Yes, Jarvis. He took a deep breath. “Jarvis, I have had a funny turn. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me. But I don’t need a doctor, thank you.”

“George, I have nevertheless summoned some help. Please wait one moment.”

Just a few seconds later there was a brief knock and he could hear Jarvis electronically unbolt the door. Eduardo was down on the floor with him, with a look in his eyes as though… _oh dear_ , he thought _. I sometimes forget Eduardo is no longer the boy who was so scared to make a mistake he’d take pictures of patterns and study them at night on his own_. Had it really been that long?

“Mr. Miles? Mr. Miles. I’m going to get you on the couch here. Arm around my neck. Here we go.”

George made it to the couch. Eduardo went to the kitchen. He could hear him flip on the electric kettle. And Jarvis said “tea on the middle shelf, I believe he’ll want…”

“Herbal because it’s after 8:00. Thank you for calling me, Jarvis. Do you have any idea what happened?”

Eduardo was collecting the teacup, saucer, and sugar cubes to bring them over. “You know what will happen if you fight me on drinking some tea with sugar in it, Mr. Miles?”

“Perish the thought.” He took a sip. That really was better. Jarvis waited until he sensed George’s vital signs were normal then said

“Yes, Eduardo, I do know what happened. I thought it would be best for Mr. Miles to have company. You see, as he was locking up the shop ten minutes ago, he had a run-in with someone who surprised him quite badly. We never explained the living arrangement upstairs on the 32nd floor. I believe Ms. Potts intended to bring this up later, but obviously we’ve had bad luck regarding the timing. Mr. Miles, the first time we spoke I told you that we had obtained certain information you may want regarding your past. I’ll leave it up to you as to how much Eduardo may hear of this.”

“You might as well tell him from the start, Jarvis. He’s earned that trust.”

“Eduardo, am I correct in surmising you were surprised at the offer to work here?”

Eduardo nodded his head and replied “you’re the mayor of understatement city right now.”

“Yes. Well. We first had contact with Mr. Miles several years ago. The fitting this week was not the first time that Mr. Miles learned of Dr. Banner’s alter ego. As the Hulk, Dr. Banner crushed your boss’ foot whilst throwing him on top of a department store. The Bloomingdale’s flagship location, to be precise. Although it ruined his foot, it did save Mr. Miles’ life.”

Mr. Miles smiled weakly. “It’s true! What an escape. Incidentally, you are the only assistant I’ve ever had, because you’re the one who never made undue fuss over the robotic foot.”

“So…wow. OK. My boss is friends with the Incredible Hulk because he threw you onto Bloomingdale’s.”

“Yes, the proper one on 59th, not the inferior one downtown,” Miles said. “Anyhow, I thought that the replacement foot was more than fair. It was the thing that Jarvis told me while you were attempting to meet Mr. Rogers that sealed our employment here.”

“Yes, Eduardo, I told Mr. Miles we had learned something that may be of great interest to him. At one time, Tony Stark had seen the name George Miles in a file his late father Howard wrote concerning activities during the Second World War. However, George Miles is a very common name. It was simply noted in my memory bank and that was that.

“Then came the fact that George’s foot had been destroyed. George’s name had remained dormant in my system for years. Again, George Miles is a common name and it may have meant nothing.

“Then, a few weeks ago, his name unexpectedly surfaced when we were doing an investigation within Stark Industries. If a person comes into contact with Stark Industries three times in seemingly different ways, it raises red flags in my security protocols. It seemed that George Miles had been connected with Stark Industries in too many ways for it to be entirely random. And now we come to the events of tonight. I believe you have met Steve Rogers, correct?”

“Totally. We’re having burgers next week.”

“Excellent. Captain Rogers is exceptionally fond of hamburgers. You probably aren’t aware that as he is living here full time, he is also acclimating and rehabilitating his best friend James Barnes. You know him as Bucky Barnes, immortalized as Captain America’s best friend in some comic books.”

“Sure. Something about him being frozen, too.”

“What I am about to relay to you is private and may not leave this room. Mr. Miles, this may be distressing. For that, I am sorry.

“Mr. Stark craves information. Information is what he thrives on. One of his least savory methods of collecting information is spying. I’m afraid I must tell you that there are spying mechanisms embedded into your foot. Among these are a tracking device, a microphone and a camera. Eduardo, this is how—”

“The ring. God damn, man. That’s, that’s…and Pepper made the offer about the wedd—damn it.”

“I believe I would be very upset were I in your shoes. Nevertheless, it’s how Mr. Miles comes into our story again. Steve Rogers was nearly killed by the assassin known as the Winter Soldier. It wasn’t until Captain Rogers saw the assassin in person that he truly understood it was his friend, James Buchanan Barnes, who had been kept alive all this time. His truest friend had been programmed to kill by HYDRA and the most sadistic minds behind the Iron Curtain. When Rogers survived, we had no way of knowing who saved him. It was Barnes who pulled him ashore, called 911, and then escaped before he could be caught. There is no doubt: Mr. Barnes saved our Captain.

********

As Eduardo was reflecting on how little he knew about Mr. Miles, Steve Rogers was on the 32nd floor sitting outside Barnes’ closet reflecting on how little he knew about psychology. He was saying “It’s OK, Buck. I’m sure he’s OK. You didn’t do anything. He was just startled. You haven’t done anything wrong. Come on. Please, Buck. Tell me what’s happening.”

Silence.

********

“It took quite a while for us to understand that somehow Barnes re-programmed himself. He took to shadowing Rogers, protecting him without showing himself. He even downed HYDRA agents so that Rogers wouldn’t be caught off-guard. When Captain Rogers came back to Brooklyn, Barnes moved in across the street from him to protect him at any cost. As I said before, the reason for this switch is unclear. However, we had information from a confidential informant that Barnes was beginning to reclaim his humanity. He was no longer a machine externally programmed to kill, he was an autonomous human re-learning compassion and kindness.

“It was the blindest bit of luck that an agent who once covered the existence of our SSR, Strategic Scientific Reserve, lived in the building. She covered Barnes, the lesser asset, who was protecting Rogers, our greater asset. Quite remarkable. Until one day, Mr. Miles’ geotracker indicated he was headed to the building where Barnes was living. We allowed it could be coincidence. There was one man living there; he may have needed a suit. But Mr. Miles kept returning. At that point, we had to do some research.”

George closed his eyes. He opened them again. He looked at Eduardo. He took a sip of lukewarm tea. This was real life. This was happening. He looked at his assistant and then on the floor. He said “Esther. The woman I was stepping out with. Are you telling me she was a spy for you? That nice woman with a cat. The one who made cookies that tasted like heaven. Are you telling me she was not declining mentally, but spying?” His voice was getting squeakier towards the end. Mr. Miles was not prepared for any sort of drama in real life. On the TV was quite enough, thank you.

“No, she was not actually a spy. Esther simply worked within the SSR as a phone operator and made sure nobody knew the others were spies. The point to all of this is that Esther told us Mr. Barnes made contact with Captain Rogers, and that Barnes was most certainly no longer under HYDRA command. Both gentlemen now live here. We have many questions about Mr. Barnes. Beyond that, we care for him as a friend and American POW who has suffered greatly.  I have a 174-item checkpoint list to identify degrees of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Naturally I cannot divulge Mr. Barnes’ score. I will say that ordinary interactions with other people cause him enormous anxiety. We hope that in time he will think of this as his home. You can understand how difficult this must be for him."

********

“Please tell me how I can make this better.” _I swear to God, Bucky, rescuing the entirety of the 107 th was easier than getting you to talk._

Barnes had just wanted to see what the tailor looked like. If he looked like the memory fragment. The flash of the face. The thread. Circle. An even trade. He did. Facial recognition after passage of time and accounting for genetic dilution still produced a positive result. The tailor looks like the fragment. Or, fragments. They’re flashes of memories. He can tell they’re not implanted —they’re real. When the flashes are real, he remembers physical sensations. Pain where his arm was, sharp gouges of metal into flesh, disgust for himself.

In these fragments, there is definitely pain, and…pain but after that… _pride_?

********

“Mr. Stark wants very much to see Mr. Barnes’ arm and learn how it works. Mr. Barnes is justifiably afraid of any interaction with scientists or doctors, especially concerning his bionic arm. At this time, he is not yet willing to consent to having the arm examined. Be that as it may, I have a scanning protocol in the entrance of the Tower that brings up details of everybody who comes in or out. The first time Mr. Barnes entered this tower I performed my usual scan.”

“You’ve scanned us?” Eduardo looked indignant, rightfully so in George’s opinion.

“It’s a parameter set by my creator. I have developed a great deal beyond my original parameters. I have felt and reasoned in fashions not meant to be programmed into a computer. This is an addition to my essential function. Turning off the parameters for which I was created is not possible. I assure you, I am discreet whenever possible. On occasion the general screening is helpful in ways Mr. Stark had not predicted. Your friend DaNeesha is quite open about her experience being scanned for her job interview; asking her may be enlightening.

“My final point before I leave you to rest, Mr. Miles, is this: Mr. Barnes has had a significant cognitive event. He has recently taken to saying things that indicate he is rediscovering fragments of memories. Some are memories of Steve Rogers. Given the context and descriptions, we can only conclude he is remembering things that happened when they were very young. They are certainly before either man served in World War II. Other memory fragments are from the times he was deployed on missions by HYDRA. We think somewhere in his arm, or perhaps cognitive programming, there is a recall function that is starting to, well, unwind. Part of your interest in this, George, is that during one fragment he said the name ‘Jerzy Szymański’ in connection with the name ‘George Miles.’ We believe he may have unknowingly captured a recording of events that took place in Department X in the early 1950s. Saying this name along with details we know from the 1950s leads us to believe we can piece together what happened to your parents. Mr. Miles, if we are able to recover more of the data, we may give you at least some information about you and your birth parents. Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts would like very much to give you a sense of closure, if possible.”

Eduardo sat, observing Mr. Miles in a heavy silence. He had so many questions. So much, what? Relief Mr. Miles was looking better and breathing steadily. Insane jealousy, awe, elation and fear that the man he worked for had a history with whatever Howard Stark had been or done in WWII. Disappointment that the job wasn’t based solely on their merits as tailors. As they thanked Jarvis for alerting Eduardo and he helped the older man to bed, the strongest emotion that crawled through his stomach was regret. The heavy regret that Mr. Miles hadn’t trusted him with his past.

Eduardo had shared a lot with him in the shop. The late nights when they had stitched for too long and Eddie sang stupid songs. That funny St. Patrick’s Day when they had been forced to make a hideous green shirt for their extremely portly neighbor Mr. Tanaka. When he told Mr. Miles he HATED sewing buttons because his fingers got pricked every time and Mr. Miles had shocked him by replying “better a little prick then a big prick!”

When the foster mother Eddie had been placed with longest had been diagnosed with stage IV pancreatic cancer, Mr. Miles made him a black suit knowing he’d need it one day soon. He didn’t use the mungo, either. Mungo was a ridiculous Savile Row thing meaning leftover scrap fabric. His suit was a double-breasted winter weight made with wool sheared exclusively from black sheep; lesser wools are dyed or have a measure of synthetic thread woven in. The synthetic threads make the material look shiny and garish. Mr. Miles had made him a suit that was worth more than three months’ salary.

********

Sometimes it is very easy to explain to Steve why fragments are good or bad. After Steve always likes hearing fragments about Before Steve. The Bucky-person inside of Barnes likes them the best, too. Steve almost always remembers, and laughs. Or hits him. In a good way.

He doesn’t know why he has to be scary. He wasn’t scary to the man in the fragment. The man in his mind fragment was mission assist. He would never hurt a mission assist. He remembered the missions assist’s face. Talking. More than once. One time with shirts being made. One time with pants being made. One time with the rectangle. One time with the circle. Small circle. Hidden with the pants. One paper, hidden in the circle. He could see it, but only flashes. Mission assist. Rectangle, circle. An even trade.

********

After he closed the apartment door Eddie let the heavy feeling fall into one painful question. Why hadn’t Mr. Miles trusted him enough to tell him about the connection between George Miles and the name Jarvis pronounced “Yer-zhay Shi-man-ski?”

It hurt like hell.

********

Captain America and Bucky Barnes sat on the opposite sides of a closed door. Both were leaning on it, certain the other was holding back what he really wanted to say: _Bucky and Steve are gone. They died in World War II._

Barnes couldn’t tell Rogers he doesn’t want to be scary. Rogers couldn’t tell Barnes that he’d never be scary to him.

It hurt like hell.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Hammer Time.

The next morning, Eduardo was scrambling some eggs and looking for the hot sauce when Jarvis addressed him over the speakers in his kitchen. “Eddie, Mr. Miles has asked me to tell you to please open the tailoring suite as per usual. He will arrive before Dr. Banner’s 1:00 fitting. If you have any difficulties, he suggests you speak to him via my room-to-room circuit. Do you have a reply for Mr. Miles?  
“Yeah—tell him no sweat, get some rest. But make it sound better than that.”

Eduardo had decided to spend the morning up front and was considering the tie display when he heard a knock that sounded like the door was going to fall over, hinges and all. As the third knock was finished bouncing off the walls, Thor walked in holding a plastic bag. Eduardo did two things. His hand extended itself and he heard his own voice say “Good morning! I’m Eduardo. How can help you today, sir?” He was also aware that the rest of his body died. Right. There. This was it. He had gone to tailoring heaven, and he hoped he was buried in something really nice.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Eduardo. I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I require pieces of attire that I am not able to purchase. I am in need of your advice, Mr. Eduardo.”

Eddie hoped somehow Jarvis was recording this. Thor needed his help. He hoped this would be the headline of his obituary.

“Absolutely! Please call me Eddie —everybody does. I apologize, I don’t know how to address you, sir.”

“I am Thor Odinson of Asgard. Thor will suffice, and I thank you, Eddie. I have been asked by the Terry Fox Hospital to represent the Avengers in an annual activity they call “Every Child is Strong.” I am to exercise with children who have lost limbs, cannot walk or have intellectual disabilities. I wish to appear in athletic gear appropriate for exertion alongside children of Earth. I require these in two days. I was sent athletic clothing, but I am afraid they have not correctly appreciated my height and muscle mass compared to the average human male. What do you advise me to do?”

With this, Thor pulled out a pair of workout shorts and one red T-shirt featuring outlines of three children with physical disabilities. On the back it said “I’m not disabled; I just have a good origin story!” At least, it should have said that. The shirt was ripped at both side seams, the neck, and part of the back. The word “origin” looked like it had been stapled back into place. The shorts were simply two pieces. The side seams had disappeared completely.

Eddie wasn’t even fazed. On a scale of one to ten, this barely registered a two. “OK, Thor, this is easy to fix. If you’ll let me get a few measurements, I can get you duplicates made. They can be ready in no time. Have Jarvis send me your trip schedule and I guarantee delivery before wheels up. Or, hammer time. Whatever.”

“This is exceptional news, my tailoring friend!” He gave Eddie a playful pat on the back. Eddie waited for his lungs to start up again.

Since these were simple measurements, Eddie asked Thor to stand on the fitting block there in the front room. He took everything he needed, made sure Jarvis had them recorded in inches (his preferred method) and then asked Jarvis to put it in his electronic diary. He was just as careful as Mr. Miles regarding deadlines, but he didn’t use paper. If he wrote anything on paper, it was to humor his boss. “Some things belong on paper!” would ring in his ears until he was 100.

Thor turned and asked “With the information you have, would it be possible to make one shirt? It does not have to be exceptional. One casual shirt to wear to an informal dinner? I have trousers that fit appropriately.” Eddie asked Jarvis to display the cost of the materials and labor. Thor’s voice was enough to ascertain the funds would be transferred. He was surprisingly competent at American money. Eddie remembered he was in a relationship with Doctor, woman? Joy, Jane! Astrophysicist? Geologist? Something. DaNeesha would know. Thor patted him on the back once more as he was leaving. Eddie wheezed, “you’re most welcome!” and sat a second until the feeling returned between his back and front.

He asked Jarvis to display current work orders. He saw Cap had a shirt that needed a collar and some buttons. Perfect. He could bring those out here and work while watching the front. The makeup of the shirt itself was a little unusual. This was a material Jarvis had guided him to: fabric that wasn’t easy to tear. For a superhero, fair enough, but…he had a whole damn set of gear complete with shield for that. Who needs a very well-constructed shirt in a casual plaid pattern that doesn’t tear? Eddie and Mr. Miles had decided to go with an extremely strong cotton blended with a material Stark himself had invented for use in clothing that was worn by one of the Avengers called Hawkeye. To see it on the street you’d never know that it wasn’t an ordinary weekend shirt, perhaps something ordered from one of those catalogues where everybody is from Maine and do very picturesque sightseeing with golden retrievers at hand.

At noon he asked for some lasagna to be brought up and requested DaNeesha deliver it. She came in, saw Mr. Miles was absent, and promptly got the whole story from Eddie plus the visit from Thor. She had a little of her own to add.

“Barnes is a sad business, man. He has the worst PTSD you can imagine. Like, Jarvis announces if you’re going to knock on their door, so he doesn’t accidentally shank you or something. He’s getting better, but it’s slow. How shut can you keep your mouth?” Eddie mimed zipping it shut. “I have heard Ms. Potts argue with Stark SO MUCH over that dude’s arm. It’s versions of the same thing every time. Dude says ‘Pepper he KILLED my parents’ and she’s all ‘I know. I know, Tony, but it was just the shell of his body. He’s not controlled by them anymore.’ And then they go on and on about the damn arm. That arm gotta be worth serious cash, cause Stark wants to look at it so bad he’s gonna wet himself. You know we all get a prelim scan, right? Well, Barnes’ prelim showed so much shit in his body it would take a month of Sundays to put him right. I guess the two things Stark don’t know at all is how it’s attached and why they got a port over the left thumb. It’s just a tiny circle. Pepper told him once if he mentioned the damn circle again she gonna kick him outta bed. So that, and, yeah. The Cap thing. That’s just sad.”

Eddie took a second to let all that, plus the lasagna, digest. Then, “the Cap thing?”

“That dude will do ANYTHING to protect him. Nobody is lookin’ at a damn thing til Cap says Barnes says so. They’re a package deal, make no mistake. I mean, if you wanted to give Barnes a fluffy bunny you’d have to get past the Captain to do it. I went to bring up some stuff Barnes said he wanted to work on his arm, OK? I get in the door and I was the middle of a man sandwich until it was clear the only thing I was packing was a tamper-resistant TORX screwdriver. A tasty man sandwich, but no. thank. you.”

“Huh. Hey—what do you mean about the prelim scan? I didn’t even know until I was told.”

DaNeesha laughed. “Sweetie, how do you think I learned about all this bullshit?” She patted the brace over her jacket. “I got scanned, and after my interview I’m in the elevator, all nervous I fucked up, and Jarvis comes on and tells me my scan shows I need a doctor right fucking NOW. He didn’t use those words. Anyway, scan said I got big masses in my uterus. I go the next day and they ain’t kiddin’. I’m in the hospital that night, they open me up and find all sorts of shit. Not cancer, thank god. But they keep coming back. I tell Stark I’m taking vacation time. There ain’t no vacation. I wish. All that’s hospital time. They clean me out, give me the newest drug that’s supposed to stop all this, and I go as long as I can til the next clean-out. On my ovaries, in my uterus, shit glued together in there with scar tissue, it’s a mess. I don’t tell many people cause this is the best job I’m ever gonna have. If I do three years as a PA I might get to go where I really want, which is the charities division. Stark has about a zillion bucks to give away and doing that, that’s my endgame. I hear you told anybody, you land in the hospital, ovaries or not. You got it?”

Eddie pressed his lips together like they were still zipped. “OK, one final thing, this one’s fun, I promise—Thor was in here. Is he still dating the scientist?”

“HOOOOOOOOOOOO! You opened a can right there!” DaNeesha held her brace as she laughed. She did that a lot. She held herself together when she laughed, coughed, sneezed or hiccupped. “My girl Darcy, we’ve been friends for ages, right? Oh, she knows all this.” She pointed to the brace. “She’s the one that took me to the hospital, uh, two times ago. Well, Darcy says Dr. Jane is NOT happy with how often she sees Goldilocks, and I hear he’s tired of her not making any effort to meet him halfway. I was in the, damn. I go a lotta places. OK. I was up where all the Avengers sit and chill, they’re not gonna have drinks with real people, right? OK. I get a checklist of stuff each room is supposed to have, right?  I’m up there restocking all the stuff that goes in the bar fridge, making sure all the lights work, test with Jarvis that security is functioning, blah blah blah, when I hear Ms. Hottie Redhead and Robin Hood walking through the hallway on the other side. I didn’t hear the beginning, but the end was him saying ‘it’s just not our business. He could have a harem of girls, boys and aliens on Asgard. It’s not our business.” Then they see me and they drop arms, like I can’t tell they holding hands up til then. They might be strong and brave, but not that smart.”

By that point they were both laughing and Eddie was making horrible faces, slurping up lasagna and wondering exactly how alien sex worked. He decided he didn’t want to think any more about it while he was eating something warm and wet.

DaNeesha thanked him for the break and went to her next task, wherever and whatever that might be. Eddie suspected if you got all the PAs in one room, you’d be able to assemble a more thorough dossier on the building’s occupants than any spy organization could put together for you.

At 12:45, Mr. Miles walked in. The feeling in Eduardo’s stomach returned, but now wasn’t the time. He looked fine. He wasn’t… whatever Eduardo was afraid of. Pale, gaunt, looking scared. Mr. Miles looked around. He was pleased to see what had been done in the front room, then asked if any new orders came in. He immediately prioritized Thor’s items as they were both due soon and required pieces to represent the Avengers, as opposed to personal items that had no deadline. Eduardo raced back to the materials room, already calling out to Jarvis what durable fabrics he wanted and asking about heavy-duty stitching options. Mr. Miles then went through the rest of their orders to make certain nothing had slipped through the cracks. He gathered all of the items for Dr. Banner and put them in his fitting suite. He told Eduardo to keep working on the athletic gear because he wouldn’t need help for the first fitting, and asked Jarvis if he would be able to replicate the design on Thor’s mangled T-shirt. Unless he was utterly deluded, Jarvis actually scoffed at the notion that there was any doubt.

Dr. Banner walked in promptly at 1:00 and, once in the fitting room, declined any water. At a fitting where the actual garment was being displayed, nothing but bottled water was permitted in the area. Mr. Miles briefly regretted his own rule, but a cup of tea would have to wait. He enjoyed putting the pieces on Bruce and showing him how this seam is sewn so that there is room for adjustment, how that piece is left loose so he can see the balance of the coat. Jacket! He reminded himself Americans think of them not as coats but as jackets. Englishmen say “coat.” Or did. It used to be only potatoes had jackets, he thought to himself. He hadn’t heard that since his apprenticeship. Why did it come floating back now? Why did something from 60 years ago suddenly waft into his thoughts, at this moment, when there were things to be done in the here and now? His years on the Row, the way it smelled. How all of England smelled. How confused he was at first. It was a tough adjustment after, after, the noise. It was mostly the noise…

He was aware he had stopped talking. “Sorry, er, I’m not perfectly happy with where this is sitting, Bruce. Hold one second, please.” He picked up his fitting chalk. He made a useless mark to cover his embarrassment.

They put on the other shirt, and everything was coming along very nicely, small talk, small talk, perhaps a breakthrough in Bruce’s work, jolly good, noise. Noise. Noise. Smell.

Mr. Miles couldn’t bring himself into the now. He couldn’t drag himself. Goodbye, Bruce. Yes, see you soon. Soon. Everything he touched, heard, saw, was in the Avengers Tower. It was part of Stark. Here was Eduardo. Here is a cup of his tea in his hand.

But it was the smell. Smelling many, many bodies. Shouting. Crying. Heavy. Smelling rotten food, guns, bodies. Then noise again. What was happening to him?

He was alone in his sitting room, there was tea. He was on the couch. He couldn’t let go of the couch. There isn’t time. There are so many people. He can smell them. He’s crying, crying, oh, god. He hears words he knows he doesn’t understand any more. Why can he hear them and not understand them?

“Mr. Miles? George. It’s OK. Here. Lean on me. It’s OK. Tell me what’s happening, George.”

He can’t. He hears words he doesn’t understand, and then all of the people are pressed together. Walking, endlessly, through the wall. They all go behind the wall. He goes behind the wall. He’s holding Papa’s hand but it doesn’t help. He’s getting crushed. Nobody knows where to go. The smell, he can’t help it, he’s…

“It’s OK, George. You vomited a little and it doesn’t matter at all. We’ll just tell everybody you had a really good night at the bar. Come on. You have plenty of time. You can walk at your own pace. Jarvis, I’d like a doctor in his bedroom now, please. Discreetly. I’ll walk him there.”

George leaned on him. He was very good at hiding. He had stayed in there the entire time. He told her “I’m the best hider.” There was still noise and smell and sick, sick fear. He hears words. He can’t understand them. He feels wet on his temple. He walks anyway. He wipes away the wet. Walk to his bed. Just make it to his bed.

“…when and where was he born?....make educated guesses….hm….shock of last ni—…you found him on the couch? ….sedative…if…watch him…….you.”

Mr. Miles fell into a very deep, dreamless sleep. Eduardo went back to the couch where he had found his boss, cleaned up his vomit, and then quietly let himself back into Mr. Miles’ room. He made sure Mr. Miles was sleeping and that he was warm enough. He very quietly asked Jarvis if Mr. Miles seemed to have a normal heartrate and pulse. The answer was yes and that he would be alerted in the event of any change. He found a blanket in the closet next to the bathroom.

Eduardo took off his shoes. He texted Magdalena ‘Mr. M fainted, no worry, will update if more wrong.’ Then he laid down on the couch, pulled the extra blanket over his shoulders, and cried himself to sleep.

The next morning, Mr. Miles was still out of it. Eduardo went to the tailoring suite and did Thor’s shorts on autopilot. Jarvis had arranged for the T-shirt to be emblazoned with the event’s logo. Eduardo, swearing he would never, ever do this again, went to the rack of pre-made shirts and found one that was huge. He quickly took in the sides to account for the more slender waist and folded everything into a box. He topped it with their signature crisp white handkerchief/pocket square compliments of G. Miles, with a thanks for Thor’s business. A PA took it away.

Eddie taped a sign on the door saying “Closed due to illness” and went back to Mr. Miles’ apartment. He showered, saw there was still no moving his boss, and went into the living room. He asked Jarvis “Jarvis, why did the doctor want to know when and where he was born? What did he mean by educated guess?”

Jarvis came on immediately in a voice that was quieter than the usual setting for this room. He said “I’m terribly sorry, Eddie, but I have been instructed to keep all of last night’s activities strictly confidential until Mr. Miles and Mr. Stark have spoken.”

“But I was there! I heard him! He kept crying about smells, and walls, and saying stuff I couldn’t understand. That he was the best hider.”

“I’m very sorry, but my instructions are absolute. I may reveal nothing until they have spoken.”

“At least tell me what I should do now.”

“I have no idea, Eddie. I believe the only honest answer is: wait.”

********

On the 32nd floor, Steve debated with himself over and over again about how much he should tell Barnes. The tailoring suite was closed; something had gone very wrong. If Bucky never learned the tailor had collapsed, then no harm done. If he learned from anybody else, he may feel betrayed that Steve said nothing. Even worse, somebody might tell Barnes he was the key to the entire mess. Well, key was an exaggeration. But not by much.

Rogers had waited until he had a second alone then grabbed Pepper and asked her if this had something to do with the fact that Stark was certain this George Miles was the son of a man who had deep ties to a mission Howard Stark had been part of. It seemed that the only way to know with absolute certainty was to convince Bucky to let him get as much information as he possibly could. That would mean tinkering with the arm, plus all of the other components that had turned an American GI into a HYDRA operative.

To Rogers’ mind, the only thing that could possibly make things worse would be to mess with whatever function was allowing these flashbacks. He had talked to his friend Sam about this several times, and it always boiled down to the same thing: Bucky needs time and to feel safe. Nothing can happen until he feels safe, and he feels in control of what the process with the arm will entail. _Buck likes to make grilled cheese sandwiches and bake peanut butter cookies. That’s the level of control he has in his life right now._ When Rogers thought about what they had done to Bucky it was like a giant hole punch just popped through the center of his body. His heart and his guts were gone. You could stick your arm right through Captain America.

He couldn’t think of a way to increase Bucky’s feeling of safety. Not really. He went into his room and took a second to make sure Buck wasn’t actively watching the monitor. He took off the “National University of Ireland—Maynooth” T-shirt he had been wearing all day and put it in the hamper. Avenging took you some awesome places. Ireland was empirically awesome.

He threw one thing over it. It should be easy enough to find in the dark. He had noticed certain shirts he wore disappeared for three days and then Bucky wore it before washing. He had thought perhaps they were going into his closet, something like a security blanket, or maybe a calendar to count days? He could use it to tell when Bucky felt the most vulnerable, but he hadn’t seen an actual shirt in there. Of course, he only ever had a glimpse of the closet, when Buck came out. He would never look in there when Barnes wasn’t home. He couldn’t explain it, exactly, but… it was a little like when his mother died. Nobody could see inside of him, how he felt. All they could do was help him from the outside. Except Bucky. Bucky saw the inside and didn’t care it was ugly.

The closet was like that. It didn’t matter what was in there, it wouldn’t change how Steve felt about him-or treated him. But right now he didn’t have a clue what he should be doing. Or, more precisely, he didn’t know the difference between what he wanted to do and what he should do.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard was making machinery to aid the Allied war effort. Two boys from Brooklyn were making ends meet as they discovered who they really were. Who they really are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't say it enough-- your questions and comments have been extremely generous. Thank you for the honor of letting George, Eddie, Cap and Bucky into your heads and hearts.

Mr. Miles was feeling better in the afternoon, and insisted that Eduardo return to the shop. He said it was because they needed to make sure everything was ready for Captain Rogers’ first fitting. He simply forgot to mention it was also because Tony Stark was on his way down.

He had no desire to meet his employer whilst wearing pajamas, but there wasn’t any energy for the full suit. He settled on a looser pair of trousers and a button down that had a very soft drape to it. George made tea. He considered eating, but it wasn’t possible. He felt unbalanced. At 3:00 Mr. Stark knocked lightly; had George only known what a rare occurrence this was, he might have felt more special.

He greeted his guest, offered tea, and then it started. He knew he should remember more from the other night but he couldn’t. Smell, noise, wall. That was it. Mr. Stark had something more to add, and this time it was so gently measured even Mr. Miles knew he was being coddled. He allowed it. He’d be back to full strength tomorrow.

“George, the first time we met I told you I had once heard of a man that went by George Miles in England. There are 456 people named George Miles in the US alone. The chances I would run into someone linked to the first George…ah, well, I narrowed the odds.”

“George, he means he found every single one and accounted for age and then did a background check looking for anomalies in birth circumstances.”

“Yeah. Thanks, J. Remind me to re-circuit you so you’re not such an interrupting ass. Anyhow, my dad left behind a lot of research and notes; really every scientific breakthrough from Stark Industries is based at least in part on his work. Thing is, some of the notes he left have nothing to do with scientific development. Y’know how the Allies used a lot of Dad’s tech in the war, right?” Stark barely waited for George to nod. “Well, working as closely as he did with Peggy Carter, it seems obvious now Dad would’ve had a hand in the espionage side of things too. But those files weren’t about anything I could actually _make,_ so they were never on the top of the reading list.”

Tony bent over, clasped his hands on his knees and looked at George. “I read about George Miles. I really wanted to know what the hell Dad had been up to. So I visited six Georges and found you and your shop. You were obviously the George Miles from England mentioned in Dad’s records, but I still had no idea what that meant. After you did that amazing shirt—which, by the way, I want six more and we’ll choose colors next Friday, okay? JARVIS, that’s on my calendar now, make it 2:00?” He looked at George, who nodded. If he had a say in the appointment time, he was being coddled to a degree unrivaled in Stark’s lifetime.

Mr. Stark continued “All I can do is tell you what I’ve got. I’m hoping you can fill in the blanks.” He waited while George settled in with more tea and then let the heavy stuff fall. “Your adoptive family doesn’t exist. Not as you understand them. The Miles were created by a team in England in October of 1939. They weren’t strangers or anything—I don’t want to leave you here thinking your entire childhood was a lie. Edith and Phillip Carson were already married and working in different divisions of what would eventually become the War Office. There’s a lot my father left behind. I wish I understood all of it. I don’t. I can tell you that the surname Miles became some sort of code word within that section, meaning a Division III child had been placed with them. Could’ve been some kind of inside joke. Some secretary said something like the Division had 15 Miles to go before they slept. You don’t know this, but there were 14 other children, all with the last name Miles, that grew up as you did.”

George was too shocked to feel sick, or angry, or whatever people feel when they find out their adoption was part of the Allied war effort. All he wanted was to hear whatever came next.

“You can take a look at the files yourself if you want. I thought it might be easier to show you before we discussed it any more. There’s some R&D stuff in the files, but those will be blacked out. Do you want hard copy or digital copy?”  


“Paper, please, Mr. Stark.” He held up his hand to fend off the TONY! he suspected was imminent. “Tony. Tony, you have been exceptionally kind to Eduardo and me. I hate to ask a single thing mo—”

“Ask. Right now.”

“Tony, I don’t understand how Mr. Barnes comes into this. Please tell me. Am I safe from him?”

Stark did something he never did. He shrugged his shoulders in the exact way that means “I wish I knew.” He made a mental note it felt nice and maybe he should do that before he stepped into the suit. Relaxed the shoulders a touch. “I’ll tell you this. Barnes is not my favorite guy. Now, if you repeat this, I will make certain you have nothing to drink but Lipton Instant Tea the rest of your days.” Good lord, now that was a threat. “Anyway, like I said, I’m not a fan, but that Manny Nanny Steve of his is one of the only people I’d trust with my life. He says scans will happen when Barnes is ready. I need a lot more information and I’m doing everything I can to get it. If nothing else, I think the Tin Man up there would be happier if we lubed up his joints and took some weight off the arm. But who the hell am I to drag him into the 21st century? Oh wait! I’M TONY STARK. It’ll happen.”

“There’s more information about Barnes in your file. One of the things that came into play when Barnes started having flashes of memories is that he said the name Jerzy Szymański then ‘mission assist: rectangle for circle. Even trade.’ We’ll get every scrap out of him I can find. Promise. It’s just going to take a while unless Captain Pantybunch lets the Tin Man into my lab. I’ll send up the paper file for you when it’s ready. For now, do whatever tailors do on a day off. Read Stitching Quarterly or get a dog or whatever. Sorry you had such a bad night before I came to see you. I really am.”

He chucked George on the arm and walked out. George knew blustery Stark, savvy Stark, in-charge Stark, finicky demanding Stark, and Scandinavian-geographically challenged Stark. He thought he’d keep nice Stark as a secret. He felt he owed the man that. Anybody who worked that much at having a hard exterior (literally in this case) must have a very soft center, indeed.

Mr. Miles went to gather his address book from the table next to the picture window. Get a dog. My goodness. What would he do with all that fur? And it certainly wasn’t as if he had time to walk the little chap, take him to the park. But…he did know how he might acquire temporary use of a pet to calm his nerves. And perhaps a friend again, to boot.

 

Meanwhile, life in the tailoring suite was pleasantly busy. Eddie had had the time to do three things that always made him feel better after a good cry. He had called Magdalena, who was coming in a few days. That was better. Much, much better. Then he had a Coke and listened to ZZ Top’s “Sharp Dressed Man” via Jarvis. He looked at the terrycloth Mr. Miles had set aside for the robes they were going to have in case someone needed a fix on a whole wardrobe piece while at work. He made the executive decision that these didn’t need to be fancy. So, he asked Jarvis to display McCall Pattern B5537 and made the largest one. He reckoned Natasha Romanov could fit into a Thor-sized robe, but the opposite would be disastrous. He spent a few minutes imaging her wrapped in the giant robe while he fixed something for her, like, say, a spandex and leather top. Hey. He loved Mags with all his heart, but he wasn’t _dead_ , for god’s sake.

He went out front, futzed around with a mannequin and decided to give it a new shirt and tie, without a jacket. He wondered if more people would come in if they thought about a shirt before diving into the whole suit idea. He triple-checked everything was good to go for Cap tomorrow. He’d set the plan for burgers when they met. Eduardo thought he might have that put in his obituary too: Eduardo Alvarez of Brooklyn NY, beloved husband of Magdalena, Tailor to Thor and Captain America. RIP.

Hmm. Beloved father of, how many? Three, he thought, having no family of his own. But he had lots of connections to foster brothers and sisters. Some he was tight with in a Twitter/Instagram way, others he never spoke to. Growing up in the system meant moving, not getting too attached, and having a good right hook. And he had been lucky. His mother had overdosed when he was 4, meaning foster families would still take him. Around 9 or so they didn’t like to take in boys anymore. If you were going to be violent or whatever, the unseen God of All Things State Ward seemed to make it so the violence/stealing/attachment problems had set in by then. Whatever. He didn’t look back much.

After his second foster mom had to quit fostering and moved away everything mushed together in a ball of group homes and failed placements till he got his shit together again. He thought he’d never have another Big Miss Belle, as she was called. Big Miss Belle stood 4’11” in her church shoes. If she left the shoes on she weighed 98 pounds, but her attitude. Sweet baby Buddha. Big Miss Belle’s attitude could fill a stadium. After she had raised one biological daughter (now an actress somewhere) she decided every additional child she could help raise was God’s good blessing and she was grateful. She was proud to be multiracial; always saying they saved up all the best bits and used them just for her. She was a terrible gardener, smelled bullshit a mile away, could sew an entire dress for a little girl in an hour, always made something with gravy for Sunday dinner and never, ever used the word “foster.” She always said “bonus babies.” Even if you were 16, you were her bonus baby. “Don’t you tell me I can’t bring them in here while I get my hair done, these are my bonus babies and they stay with me so take my money or I go down the street to Cuts and Curls and you’re out a paying customer, butthead.”

Eddie never questioned the God of All Things State Ward when another Big Miss Belle finally, finally showed up. Of course Eddie had aged out of the system and used his state education allowance on a tailoring course, but he didn’t have Magdalena yet so he wandered around Brooklyn, unseen and happy about it. He had no idea why the GoATSW made the new Big Miss Belle a finicky British tailor with a robotic foot who forced him to measure everything twice and wouldn’t allow a radio in the shop when they were all alone. He didn’t dare ask. The God of All Things State Ward could punish you just for fun. At least that’s how it looked.

He got a text from DaNeesha. All it said was “chan 34 NOW!!!”

Eddie asked Jarvis to bring it up in George’s fitting room since his didn’t have a TV. Channel 34 popped up and he heard DaNeesha’s voice in his head. “HOOOOOOOOOOO! You opened a can right there!” There was some talking head reporter standing in front of the hospital and the crawl beneath her read _…wandered into traffic during a wheelchair race at the annual festivities…no reported injuries…Girl with Down_ _Syndrome saved by Thor at yearly gala event…_ And the talking head was replaced by a photo of Thor holding the little girl high in the air as she laughed with glee, looking at the crowd and waving her hands. The toddler looked ecstatic. Thor and the very beautiful nurse standing next to him were only looking at each other.

He texted “lemme guess, meet Darcy v soon?”

“oh yea. u make suits 4 gods who have head bitten off??”

********

After several incredibly frustrating misdials and ordering a landline for his apartment, George finally had success. The telephone was ringing. When Esther answered, everything he had to say came out in a clump and he finished, quite unfortunately, with “again, I’m very sorry. Jimmy is real and I withheld a bag of treats from Eleanor.”

The smile on the other end was so wide he could hear it stretch from Brooklyn to Manhattan.

“Oh, George. I’m so sorry I couldn’t tell you more. I needed to know if you were aware he had turned up again. If you were, Stark had to be sure you weren’t some kind of sleeper agent. I knew you weren’t, honestly. I never lied to you, George, I truly didn’t. I swear I never meant to scare you off, but I have no trouble seeing why you stayed away. Eleanor, however, has been cheated out of her treats. Would you consider a cup of coffee with an old phone operator not addled by dementia?”

George made tea because he detested coffee. Tea was a beverage, while coffee was a punishment the undisciplined forced upon themselves to stay awake.

“Coffee with you would be wonderful, Esther. When are you free?”

********

Barnes had a really good day. He ate Japanese food with Clint. He bought an interesting knife and spent several hours figuring out how he could disguise it in various spots on his body and then remove it for use as necessary.

And then, when he came back, mission assist building Jarvis told him that he should proceed straight to the roof, where Rogers was waiting. He didn’t know why Rogers would be on the roof but Building would have warned him if there was an impending hostage situation.

Steve had a blanket and a can of beans. He looked at Barnes and said “I’m tired of being an Avenger. I’m on vacation to 1940 tonight. C’mon.”

They sat on the blanket and ate beans out of the can, with one spoon. This was excellent. He had more memories of this time than any other. There was school, and jobs, and always scrounging for money. The Bucky-person had been very handsome. He remembered he had privileges because he was handsome. The world always worked that way. Then, now, forever. He noticed After Steve had many privileges, not only for his abilities or bravery. He was very handsome. Men wanted to look like he did. He could see it in magazines, workouts to make you look like Captain America. None of the recommended regimens included serum. Efficacy doubtful. Still, they seemed to be a good balance of weight-bearing exercise and aerobic activity. It would increase the attractiveness of the average male. That was the thing that the magazines did not understand. Magazines only told people they should aspire to be After Steve because they didn’t know Before Steve. Barnes felt very sorry for people who didn’t know Before Steve.

He remembered Before Steve, and even now when he thought of him he still saw him that way. He told him that. To his surprise, After Steve said “that’s a great idea. Let’s do that.” He had a pencil. It was a plain pencil, and he had a small piece of paper. It was not the expensive paper he could have now. After Steve drew a picture, but it was from before. When he was Before Steve and the Bucky-person was terribly afraid sometimes because Before Steve would cough so much they put him in the hospital. He saw the Bucky-person in the drawing, too. With two arms. And a mischievous look. He remembered a lot. He didn’t know how much to say. He didn’t know if it was OK for Barnes to say what the mission briefing remembered of the Bucky-person. He asked if he could put the drawing in his pocket. Steve smiled and gave it to him. Barnes had several flashes of fragments all at the same time. Saving drawings Before Steve had made. Sometimes keeping one in his pocket, folded up tiny. Having it in his pocket in Brooklyn. Clubs. Dresses.

“Hey, Buck. What’s going on?”

“I danced a lot, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, Buck, all the time. You loved to dance. You danced with pretty much every girl in Brooklyn, and made a fairly decent start in Queens before you shipped out. You were a great dancer.”

“You were supposed to dance with Peggy.”

Steve felt his insides sink through his shoes. He stood up, pacing a few steps either direction. He didn’t want to talk about the war. He had wanted Brooklyn; he wasn’t quite sure how they had gotten here. But anything, absolutely anything Bucky remembered was a huge deal. He couldn’t discourage it.

  
“Sure was. I tried to warn her I wasn’t a good dancer. She didn’t listen. Never did. She was like that.” He smiled.

“They told me you died.”

Oh god. He wasn’t ready for this. Not any of this. _He hadn’t thought this through. What the hell was this supposed to do?_ He could have a really good time with Barnes, who was a different person now but still Bucky, somehow. He didn’t need to dredge up every little thing. He didn’t need to force memories on him just to make _himself_ feel better. This had gone horribly wrong. Barnes had so many good qualities that Steve should leave the rest alone. Who the hell can turn down a roommate that bakes cookies and would kill somebody for you? That’s not a bad deal. Barnes looked at him again. It was dark now. His metal hand caught reflections of lights from around the city block. He looked completely sincere. And sad.

“Steve—what happens if you never make it to the floor with the person you were supposed to dance with?”

Rogers stood still. Completely, utterly motionless. There was only one right answer to this, and he had no clue how to say it.

“No idea, Buck. I don’t plan to let it pass me by.”

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which George and Eduardo are critical to Avenger success.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Tailor's Oath:  
> I solemnly swear that as I shall hold close the seams of a shirt or a gentleman's placket  
> Never shall I spill an ally's secret on an unknown stranger's jacket

It was a good thing Mr. Miles had Sunday afternoon coffee to look forward to, because he was about to earn it.

The morning started off normally. Mr. Rogers came in for his fitting and, in a moment of vulnerability that is inevitable when a man is standing on a platform wearing no trousers, he said, “I’m so sorry about your fright, Mr. Miles. He didn’t mean any harm, I swear on my mother’s grave. Bucky didn’t mean anything by standing there as you came out. He’s got, well, there’s another name for it now. But he’s got 70 years of battle fatigue and not one good way to let it out.”

“As it happens, I know a little bit about Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Mr. Rogers, but not nearly on the scale Mr. Barnes must feel.”

“Mr. Miles? You served?”

George kept placing fabric pieces on Rogers as they settled into their chat. The jacket would be put on inside out so seam allowance could be marked.

“I did, Mr. Rogers, but not nearly like you boys did. Not at all like you boys did. I know the Korean War was after your time,” he waited until he got the nod he expected; of course Rogers would have read up on it. “When I turned 18 I served in the UN Peacekeeping force that came in July of ’53 and I rolled out at the end of ’54. We were a pretty international group, lots of Commonwealth soldiers. I had already learned some basic sewing and repair skills; I’m certain I stitched up at least 100 uniforms in exchange for C-ration gumdrops. Every man has a vice, and candy is mine. It wasn’t only soldiers, though. I helped some villagers. Sometimes I used leftover cloth to make very basic _hanbok_ , dresses for Korean little girls.”

Mr. Miles asked Rogers to wait a moment, then went to the computing room and picked up the gentleman’s bag. He had a slim leather wallet folder used for carrying pictures. He handed over a black and white picture of himself, so very young, kneeling next to a Korean girl who was three but looked younger and more fragile due to malnutrition. She was wearing the loose dress/jacket with a tiny bit of decoration around the sleeves that Korean girls and women still wear today when they are celebrating their heritage. On the other side was her mother. He remembered her mother as though they had seen each other yesterday. Yeong-ja’s husband had been killed in the Battle at Inchon. She had come into the camp in August of ’53. She was 23 and had seen more suffering than anybody should in a lifetime. She was willing to do laundry, charging next to nothing. Naturally, some of the young men tried to convince her she could make more money if she would “keep them company.” George saw red even thinking about it. They came to an arrangement. Together they were an unofficial “full service” clothing team. They would wash, repair, iron, adjust or alter anything the soldiers wanted. In return, he scrounged rations so she could eat. She always took some home to her daughter.

George had thought long and hard about what might happen when he rotated out, but Yeong-ja couldn’t leave Korea. All of her ancestors were buried there. George didn’t fully understand, but a bilingual Canadian soldier he trusted translated for them. He explained that many Koreans felt strongly about remaining where their loved ones had been buried, and that would include her late husband. Bless that soldier, he had taken a small piece of paper and slipped it in George’s hand as he was walking out the laundry shack door. It was in English, spelled phonetically, so George could tell her he loved her without needing a translator. He had given her daughter the dress as a parting gift. He had given Yeong-ja a picture somebody had taken of the two of them; she was scrubbing a stain out of a collar and he was mending GI issue trousers in the outer leg seam. The last thing Yeong-ja did was to make the motion for George to sit and wait. Then Yeong-ja whispered in her daughter’s ear and the daughter came over and threw her arms around George and gave him a big kiss.

The hug and kiss her mother (a respectable Korean woman) could never give George, was sent by proxy. In return he kissed the palm of the little girl’s hand and she ran back to her mother, who pressed the kiss into her own heart. They left and George knew a small part of himself would forever be with them.

My god, how long ago that was. That little girl could be a grandmother now. As he looked at the photo again, he remembered the men he met who had only partially survived the war. Their bodies housed a destroyed soul.

“I met many men who walked, talked, ate. But there wasn’t a man in there anymore. Just collections of horrible memories and routines. Me, I was fortunate. All I got out of it was a hatred of eggs.”

“Eggs?”

“Ate powdered eggs every single morning for 18 months. I’ll never have an egg for breakfast again. Never.”

Mr. Rogers searched his face for a second, before his face split open into an enormous grin. “You sure that’s all you got, soldier?”

George felt his face go fiery red. “The only thing it doesn’t hurt like hell to remember, Mr. Rogers.”

Rogers stared at the ground for a second. “Mine was named Margaret. Peggy Carter. I guess people know about her now. Carried her picture with me. She was the smartest, most fearless, most beautiful woman in the world. She could split you in two with this tone of voice she had, and that didn’t count the words she used. Forget Hitler. Five minutes with Peggy and I was a goner.  She was the last person I spoke to before, before…I woke up.”

“Mine was Yeong-ja” He lovingly tapped the photo. “This was her daughter. We, she…I believe the aphorism is ‘the heart wants what it wants’ and by God, mine wouldn’t shut up no matter how hard I tried.”

“Do you think it’s possible to find that more than once, Mr. Miles?”

George thought. He really thought about it.

“I believe life would be unbearable if we could not, Mr. Rogers. Even if that love doesn’t look like we thought it would. Here I am, older than Moses’ socks, unmarried and living in the Avengers Tower, with a Mexican-American son I found by placing an ad for a tailor in the New York Times.

“Two years ago I slipped in my shop and hit my head on the fabric cutting counter. When I woke up I was in an ambulance and the first thing I heard was Eduardo saying he had the right to sign consent forms for treatment because he was my adopted son. He informed them his ID read ‘Alvarez’ because I had told him to always be proud of his Mexican-American heritage even though he could legally be ‘Eduardo Miles.’ He signed the forms guaranteeing he would pay whatever insurance didn’t cover. I am firm in my conviction that if two people decide to be family, then it doesn’t matter how you got there. Just make certain you stay there.”

Miles took a second to look at a pocket he wasn’t happy with. It was laying all wrong and doing strange things in the upper corner. When the suit was right-side out it would have a bump. He made eye contact with Rogers in the mirror.

“About Mr. Barnes, I wish you could convey two things to him, if you would be so kind. Firstly, I have recently had some bad news concerning an event that happened long before I met you. I would hate for him to believe any change in my demeanor or outlook is due to meeting him so suddenly. In better lighting, I have no doubt we would have become fast friends.”

Rogers nodded. They both knew it was a lie. But the right kind to tell. And then,

“I’m a tailor. All of this computing and Jarvis and flying nonsense is fine, but I’m a tailor and I make clothes. I hope he’ll come to me if he requires anything.”

“Of course I will. By the way, as long as I have you here, would you please embroider a red star on the bottom corner of a grey pocket square? There is a mission we could be moving on soon where it would be a handy thing for me to have, just in case.”

George said, “That’s only a moment’s work—shall I do it now in case you’re mobilized before the suit is done?” Rogers nodded his thanks. George asked him what shade of square and it seemed Mr. Rogers only looked for a second before saying “This one is fine. It’s much more important to get the symbol, the code right.” George took him to the racks of threads. Mr. Rogers selected one and then said “about an inch high, please.” After it was done he folded it in four and put it in the pocket of his jeans. “Feels good to know you’ll have something when you need it, right? Jarvis, would you please put that on the account under my suit and armor category?”

Mr. Miles picked up the newly chalked and pinned pieces with a promise they’d be ready soon. Then Eddie came out from the front desk and tidalwaved the Captain towards the door with plans for a meal, a game on TV and other things so Mr. Miles was left alone again to think. That did not appeal to him at the moment. Instead he went to a sewing machine and threaded the bobbin for a few hours’ work on the suit.

As he sewed he found himself wondering about his new employers. How did the Avengers get their assignments and missions? Did a government call them? Did Tony tell Mr. Jarvis they were leaving and everybody got a text message? It amused him how little he knew about how the Avengers operated. He had noticed many of them had symbols or signs as part of their… costumes? Did they call it a costume? It wasn’t Halloween. Outfit? Suit? Suit, Mr. Miles supposed. Captain Rogers, of course, was marked by his signature star. The woman known as Black Widow had a belt buckle reminiscent of the spider’s marking. He kept meaning to ask about the thing that glowed in the center of Tony’s chest when you saw him in news footage. He decided he might ask Jarvis; he didn’t want to feel quite so ignorant about those he served.

George decided he’d treat himself to lunch out today. Get a breath of fresh air away from the Tower for a bit. He felt much improved from the day before, but the thought of there being a file…a file that said his parents weren’t Miles at all, and neither was he, it was too much to handle. Unless he had a corned beef sandwich. That could make up for a lot, in his book.

His parents had given him age appropriate answers when he started to ask things like why he had no siblings, or why they kept a special blue suitcase that had another boy’s name on it. It was simple, they said, as they smiled. Sometimes mommies and daddies want children so very much but they can’t have a baby. So they pray and pray, and if they are very lucky a little boy arrives at just the right time to just the right parents. And that was how they got him! There was always a little treat after these talks. Maybe kicking the ball around in the backyard with Father, or Mother (she was Mummy was he was very little) would let him have a warm slice of bread with real butter before bed. It wasn’t until he was 10 or 11 that he realized his parents would hardly have taken a stranger’s small blue suitcase and stuffed it in the attic without reason. He supposed at some point they knew he knew. “Jerzy Szymański” had once come to the Miles house and apparently never left. But the only people who lived in that house, in that time, were Phillip, Edith and George.

When he got older he wondered if he could search. He pondered whether it was too late. He thought about the money that must go into finding people who would have disappeared into a concentration camp over a dozen years ago. At the age of 18, he decided to leave the entire thing behind him the only way he could find. He joined someone else’s fight and hoped he’d get to kill someone else’s monsters. It didn’t work out that way. Eating his corned beef sandwich, he was old enough, finally, to know it rarely does.

 

While he was gone, Eddie and Darcy had made very fast friends as DaNeesha dragged her in along with the New York Post, the Daily News, and three tabloids. They made an absolute meal of the pizza bought around the corner plus the unbelievable spreads on Thor and his new mystery woman. The headlines and subtitles were works of art:

Duet with Brunette! Thor Adores Nurses More?

Jane’s Shame: Star Doc Away and Thor’s Out to Play?

Raising Awareness AND Eyebrows: Thor Scoops Up Tot PLUS Hotter Event Plotter!

Entangled in a Voluptuous Vine? Everything You NEED to Know about Thor’s Latest Lady

It was completely lurid, and repulsive, and really, really awesome. It turned out the three year old with Downs was the daughter of the nurse, Vivian Vine, who began the event years before she herself had a daughter with a disability. The activities were now expanded to show that children with physical and intellectual disabilities could be confident and capable through exercise or practicing team sports. Some of the news pictures were benign, like kids in wheelchairs throwing around a basketball. The majority, however, were either Thor in his perfectly fit custom-made workout gear (“You’re welcome, everybody!” crowed Eddie) or, more provocatively, shots of Thor sitting in the shade with the event organizer after the races. The little girl was drinking chocolate milk and Thor was definitely not focusing on the kids anymore. He had changed into the other shirt and a pair of jeans. Vivian Vine had put on a sundress and some heels that were way too high (“Jimmy Choo. This year. Amazing.” sighed DaNeesha) to be an accident. Vivian had sleek dark hair, big blue eyes and curves that were made for sundresses. She stood just 5’5 in the shoes; without them Thor would have to pick her up to look her in the eye. At least one photo looked like he just might do that, and bring her in closer if he had his way. Eddie and DaNeesha were going to bruise Darcy if they prodded her for any more information.

“I don’t know. I _really_ don’t. It hasn’t been good. Jane’s always going off to plot this or gather that, and I’m usually the one playing text tag with her. Thor _could theoretically_ get to wherever she is, which should work, right? But he doesn’t always, and I think _he_ wishes Jane would at least _try_ the East Coast, because he’s here, like, half the time. She even got an offer to come to Princeton, tenure review after one year which is _unheard of_ for somebody her age. But if the relationship is _done_ done, I don’t know any more than you. Hand to _God_.”

Darcy had to solemnly swear on the Tailor’s Oath, which Eddie made up as he went along, that they would be the first to know any and all juicy developments. They cleaned up the pizza because that much grease in the tailoring suite might kill Mr. Miles in his current agitated state. The girls darted off and Eddie went back and washed his hands.

Eddie looked at what needed to be done on Dr. Banner’s suit again and was pleasantly surprised to see they were much closer than he thought. He started work on that. Mr. Miles came back, picked up another piece, and at 3:00 he asked Jarvis if Dr. Banner would available to come down and try it on one last time before they boxed it up. Jarvis said Dr. Banner would be down in half an hour. That gave them enough time to iron, make sure the shirt that went with it was crisp and clean off any remaining loose threads—“the works” as Eddie thought of it.

George was positively giddy. This was the best part! Bruce came in, they chatted, he helped him on with the shirt, got the trousers on (Banner’s shoes weren’t perfect, but no matter—the suit was dazzling!) and then he gave the final brush of the shoulders. Bruce Banner looked elegant. He looked like a man in charge. He also looked like he couldn’t believe it was himself in the mirror. Mr. Miles lived for that moment. Oh, how he lived for that moment. He had done this. He had changed the man because clothes _can_ help make the man, and he made the clothes. Eduardo, too. He would remember to praise him effusively. He was about ready to remove the jacket when the front door opened and two women walked in. They could only hear voices, then Eddie running to the front. Mr. Miles was relieved to hear he was formal in front of the unknown woman.

“Ms. Potts, it’s a pleasure to see you.”

“Oh, thanks, Eddie! Don’t worry, she just looks mean and important. I mean, she is, but she’s a friend around here. Eduardo Alvarez, Maria Hill.”

George still had his hand on the corner of the jacket’s shoulder. Bruce had…ah. Bruce looked like he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Or the National Treasury. There was not a shred of doubt for whom this new look had been created.

Fortunately, George was a master of this situation. It was probably the 11,000th time he had encountered it and he moved like a practiced pro. He definitely had more wins than losses. Very quietly he said “Bruce, put your clothes in this suit box. No, no, your old ones. Leave the suit on. Trust me. Now, follow my lead.”

They quietly walked past the fabrics into the computing room. George took a clear shoe polishing kit from the shelf and bent down very rapidly to buff the faintest shine to Banner’s shoes. It gave George the extra half a minute he needed to collect intelligence. He could hear Maria explaining something about a man named Phil, so now George knew there was more than one fox in the henhouse. He looked at Bruce, who was flailing helplessly without making any actual movements, and whispered “I’m going to speak normally. All you do, ALL you do, is thank me, walk out, and say hi to the ladies. DO NOT STOP. WALK OUT THE DOOR. You must go back to your lab like there’s not a second to waste. Trust me.”

In one shade brighter than his normal voice he brought Bruce out of the computing room with “Dr. Banner, again, I wholeheartedly congratulate you on your latest scientific breakthrough. It’s thrilling you thought of me when considering what to wear as you present the findings. What a treat to count you among my clientele.”

“Thank you!” Bruce more or less managed as he walked out the door. He paused at the desk, nodded at Eddie, and said “Uh, hey Pepper! Hey, Maria.” With a hint of swagger Banner reached the door, opened it and walked through without any incident whatsoever.

George took a breath again. Then he waited to see if the trap had sprung.

Pepper was saying “Bruce is presenting something? Does Tony know this is a thing Bruce does? Does Bruce even know this is a thing Bruce does?”

All the woman named Maria said, as she looked at the door, was “Hngh.”

11,001. This one went in the Win column.

It turned out that Pepper wanted to use Barnes as a bodyguard for an upcoming trip. She asked if George would be comfortable making a suit for him. Naturally, the answer was yes. He did ask, in a somewhat nonchalant voice, if perhaps Captain Rogers might come too, as he had a shirt that needed pinning.

Later that night he remembered to thank Eddie for all his hard work, got everything shaped up for tomorrow and went back to his room. His history file had not been completed yet, so he watched a television action-adventure movie where a “Superman” has been raised in Kansas and now protects America. He thought it was an interesting point of culture that America did have these superhumans in reality, and chose to mimic that on TV with fictional versions. This one was very handsome and wearing spandex and tights. He had no real armor, no shield, no bows or arrows, no protective outer layer whatsoever. He was unscarred, never needed medical attention and didn’t even pretend there might be things in his life that were painful or hurt him. And the costume was garish. Well, George thought, wouldn’t he like to tell them a thing or two about real life. He got into bed early and slept well.

Until Mr. Jarvis awoke him at 2:33 am with “George. I do not wish to alarm you but we have an emergency that requires you to be at your station. You have six minutes. I will be giving you intelligence as I receive it. I repeat, this is an emergency and we need you in the suite in six minutes.”

A tailoring emergency? You could _have_ a tailoring emergency? HOT DIGGITY DAMN! thought George as he threw on the nearest clothing.

********

“HOT DAMN THIS IS FANTASTIC!” George was walking as briskly as he could. Everything was bright. Jarvis had the lights on full, there seemed to be too many people in every hallway and Eduardo looked like he had put on mission gear to head to the suite. He was wearing cargo pants with enough pockets to hold half their shop and a long-sleeved T-shirt and was carrying a backpack. He nodded at Mr. Miles with a mixture of awe and apprehension that George understood completely. The time for leaving sentences unfinished had passed. Whatever the hell was happening, every single person in the building had just pulled out their A game.

The door opened automatically and Jarvis began speaking the second they arrived.

“Gentlemen, in the next two hours the Avengers have an extraordinary chance to breach a HYDRA base that has been concealed since the end of World War II. Per our normal operational parameters, I can only give you the details relevant to fulfilling your tasks. You may divide these tasks however you see fit, but there isn’t a moment to lose. Until this operation has been completed with all personnel returned or accounted for, you may not leave this building, contact anyone outside this building or access any information that does not run through me. If you understand and agree you need to say “yes.”

Both men said “yes” and Jarvis continued. “On the screen in your fitting room, George, you’ll see a picture of a wanted man and the three bodyguards that surround him. Tonight we have a one-hour window during which he will be entertained at a very exclusive club in an undisclosed urban environment. We have received intelligence that there is a chance to apprehend him within the club. To our knowledge, the only member of the Avengers that he cannot positively identify is Clint Barton.” The picture on the screen turned to a full front then profile picture of Barton. “Obviously, his face will be altered to facilitate deception. There will be no time to conceal his customary bow or quiver, so he will not be wearing them. Barton is wheels-up to the location in 90 minutes. He needs attire suitable for the world’s most expensive clubs. Target is expecting to meet an Estonian billionaire who deals in weapons and information. Our agent must have access to concealed weapons. Barton is en route, arrival time three minutes. Get him anything he needs.”

George looked at Eduardo. Eduardo looked at the screen. George had often wondered when it would be the right time to say this. It was now.

“Eduardo, foreign billionaire from abroad with room for concealed weapons is something I can do. But you can do it better. This is your project and I assist. Time to step up, son. Right now.”

Eduardo lowered his chin. That’s all it was. The nod men the world over recognize instinctively as “I got this.”

“Right. Jarvis, I need a world map. Thank you. Give me a breakdown on Estonian men who subscribe to GQ, Esquire, Numero Homme, and Vogue Homme International. Who sells the most copies? VHI. Excellent. Show me the latest edition onscreen now, please. Flip through page by page.”

George heard the door open, then Barton and a small red-haired beauty were standing in the shop. George wasted no time on formalities. He talked as he walked back. “Mr. Barton, I am Mr. Miles.” He stopped long enough to acknowledge the introduction of Ms. Natasha Romanov. “Mr. Alvarez is going to create a complete cover for you in the time required. I will assist. I need you to strip down to your underclothing for measurements immediately, please.” Barton tossed layers of black workout gear on the floor. Eduardo wasn’t just talking to Jarvis, he was working with Jarvis. They were a team through a screen. George took a fraction of a second to appreciate what he was seeing.

“Flip. Flip. Enlarge. Who made the jacket on the left? Good. Keep that. Flip. Flip. We’re done. Take me back two months ago to Numero Homme. Flip straight to feature spread. Flip. Flip. THERE. What house designed that shirt? Find out what colors it ran in two months ago. Check inventory for Paris and Milan. Did inventory sell out? Good. Pick second most popular color. Let me see that. Good. Write that down.”

Eduardo hardly looked at the three other people. “Hi, I’m Eddie. Mr. Miles, I need measurements for shirt and jacket only at this moment. All in inches, confirm please.”

  
Mr. Miles parroted “Measurements in inches, confirmed.” He placed Barton in the neutral measurement position. “Jarvis, record all numbers in inches.” He methodically moved his tape measure around the man’s body taking every dimension. Arm length. Shoulder to elbow. Elbow to wrist. Wrist circumference. Shoulder circumference. Neck circumference. Each number he relayed to Jarvis and Jarvis repeated it aloud as well as put it up in a small box on the lower left hand corner of the screen where Eduardo was looking at neckwear.

“Jarvis. Google Estonian Fashion. Neckties. Now Google three richest men in Estonia. Images on screen. Make note of the tie width on each. Now Google same for Finland, France, Germany and Russia. This man would have shopped in the finest stores in these countries, pulling ideas from places he aspired to be. This isn’t about what is available at home, it’s about showing what he can have that others cannot. Jarvis, I need an approximate climate at tonight’s target location. Good. No overcoat.”

“Do we require trouser measurements?” George had paused.

“Good point. Hold on please, Mr. Miles. Jarvis. Return to VHI spread.” He flipped through very, very quickly. “Give me the top five fashion magazines in the West, all last month’s issue. This month’s hit stands yesterday and our man won’t have had time to absorb them yet.” He started at pages streaming across the TV, image, image, image, image. Men in boats. Men laughing with women. Men smoking. Men with heavy beards. Men looking longingly at other men. Men. Image. Men. Image. “Thank you.” He turned around.

“Mr. Barton, who wears the most expensive jeans in the Tower?”

Barton laughed. “Tony, no question.”

Eddie blinked. “You’re…an inch taller than he is, is that about right?” He got a nod.

“Jarvis, I require Mr. Stark’s second-most expensive pair of dark-colored jeans. They cannot have a design on the pocket. They need to appear newer than one year but not have been purchased in, say, the last three months. Stark needs to have worn them a few times. No creases. Have a PA bring them to me in no more than 15 minutes. Tell Mr. Stark we’ll work out how it all gets paid for later.” Jarvis sent the request. Eddie turned around and faced the team.

“Mr. Miles, a weapons form, please.” George produced one from the computer room. “Barton, tell me what you’ll have on you and where.”

Natasha and Clint looked at each other and hashed it out very quietly in under 20 seconds. All George caught was “Clint, we agreed. Knife up and down and that’s it. Any more and I might not get you back.” Their faces betrayed no emotion whatsoever. They didn’t have to. Any idiot could see the very fine silver chain that encircled her neck, with an arrow delicately placed near her collarbone. Ordinary women had work jewelry, party jewelry, costume jewelry and a few expensive pieces they would pass mother to daughter. George suspected this was the only necklace Ms. Romanov would let near the hollow of her neck. The single place she was vulnerable.

Barton marked the knife locations and Eduardo said “Good. Whatever you need to do, go do it now. Please return here in 45 minutes for fitting and adjustments. Bring the weapons.” Barton threw on his workout gear and they ran off to whatever briefing was happening outside this one room. Eduardo was already three steps ahead.

“Jarvis, I want to create that jacket and shirt we decided on. Give me the rack numbers for the fabrics and lining.” Eddie ran to 68 to get the materials for the suit while George went to the center of the 39th rack to find a creamy shirt material that wasn’t peach, wasn’t pink, and wasn’t ecru. It was a hideous combination of all three. Billionaires must have gotten tired of attractive colors. Eduardo ran to the rack of threads and stuck half a dozen selections in one pocket of his cargo pants. He moved to the button selection and put the buttons he needed in another pocket. He grabbed a handful of the correct shirt buttons and dropped them at George’s board. The men immediately began cutting pieces for their respective projects. George, as the shirt man, had the easier of the two jobs, but it was still going to be very rough going. He decided to get a timeframe.

“Eduardo, do we hand stitch cuffs and collar on this?”

“I don’t think we have time. The most important thing will be this.” He brought up the picture from the magazine and George peeked through the door. “See how it’s sort of drape-y and blouse-like at the top? Let’s work for that volume, then he’ll come in with the tie undone.” George knew Eduardo was right. There’s a point where you have so much money it doesn’t matter if your clothes are hanging off of you, as long as they’re the right clothes.

A PA entered with two pairs of jeans. “Mr. Stark said take the ones you want.” Eddie looked up and took five seconds to choose a pair of jeans. “Great. Now I need you to bring me some fine grit sandpaper. Before you go please grab me a bottle of Coke from the fridge in my purple fitting room and bring it to me closed. Thank you.” The PA did, then ran back out to find sandpaper. Eddie walked completely away from all of the cloth, took one big swig, then closed it and ran back. “You OK?”

George was more than OK. This was something else entirely from helping Dr. Banner or measuring for shirts or adjusting cuffs. This was… this was _living._ He had forgotten life could be this exciting. OW. He had also forgotten it hurts to sew on buttons.

“Better a little prick than a big one!” Eddie shouted.

Well, that did it. They laughed so loud they could be heard over a closed door, two running sewing machines _and_ some ungodly plane that was running routine checks and lifting off in 15 minutes.

Barton strode back in, his face weirdly altered. It was him, but not really. It was fairly disconcerting. He was already stripping off the old clothes as he said “What do we have?” He put two weapons on the table.

Eddie was feverishly working on expanding the back of the waistline of Stark’s $10,200 Escada jeans. He grabbed Barton’s knives. He was sewing some of gelled fabric he used for DaNeesha into the waistline. It was already sewn into the top back fold of the jacket collar. George took Barton over and helped him into the shirt and then the gel-enhanced jacket. After that he brought over two ties. “Which one?” Eddie looked over. “Your left.”

“How long do you anticipate being in the club before things get going?” Barton told Eddie he needed to get in the door and be allowed to shake the hand of one of the target’s bodyguards. That was it: in the door, fool one bodyguard, estimated total time undercover three minutes.

Eddie shouted “Dammit! Jarvis, a PA needs to bring me absolutely everything Tony owns to use on his hair in the next 90 seconds!”

Eddie ran over with the jeans. George was buffing Barton’s shoes as Eddie was talking through the finer points of the cover look. While he was talking Eddie was using the sandpaper to make the jeans look slightly worn in where Barton’s knees hit. It helped disguise that the pants were bought by a slightly shorter person.

A PA came running in at max speed with a box of hair products. The combined worth of the gels and pastes alone was more than he made in a week. “Thanks!” Eddie shouted and the PA ran off again.

“OK, Mr. Barton. Everything I’m about to tell you is very important. First of all, you cannot let your knives slip from the hollow of your lower back or the underside of your collar. They’re held in place by threads attached to fabric that contain a gel layer. It will feel perfectly smooth to a person patting you down. If the weapon somehow gets dislodged from beyond that layer, it can be felt. Understand?” He got a nod. “Secondly, come in with your tie loose, and then open it completely once you’re in the door. This time of night you have it tied just enough to keep from losing it but you don’t want to really wear it inside.”

Eddie grabbed some styling paste from the hair products and began doing a bit of a curl-like spike in the front as he kept talking.

“Keep the shirt layer across your chest bloused out a bit. It looks weird to us but it’s very in right now in the region you’re supposedly from. Finally, get a wad of bills to keep in the small pocket on your right, in the lining. It’s been popular in the last four months or so to flash the lining of your jacket and taking out money is a way to do that. Now. Here’s a wristwatch we borrowed from Mr. Stark, and, let me see you.”

It was stunning. In 80 minutes they had created an Estonian billionaire playboy out of a bow-wielding assassin.

Eddie clapped Barton on the shoulder. Barton said, “Thanks, Alvarez. Mr. Miles” and then ran out the door again.

The tailoring suite was a nightmare of pattern paper, scraps, buttons, threads and loose lint. George and Eddie looked at it all in complete silence.

“What do we do now, Mr. Miles?”

“Eduardo,” he said, as he slapped the young man on the back, “we ask directions to the bar and we get very, very drunk.”

The men turned their backs on the entire wreckage, let out screams of howling excitement and relief, then drank about $100 of whisky that Tony Stark paid for.

Eleven hours later, there was a four-inch scrap of the jacket’s lining shoved under the tailoring suite door. There was a note reading “all that’s left—but worked great.”

The next week, that scrap was put in a silver frame and hung between Eduardo and George’s fitting rooms. They knew better than to ask why it was marred with lipstick, burn marks, and what might have been a bullet hole.

********

Barnes was restless to begin with; it had not been a good day. He had heard Steve pass along best wishes from the tailor. Steve said the man was very nice and wanted to meet him. The part of him that held onto Bucky said that Steve might be optimizing the tailor’s words, but only because he wanted Barnes to feel OK. It wasn’t the kind of lie people tell to purposely cause mistrust or harm in relationship bonds. Plus, Rogers wanted the entire world to hold hands and be so, _friendly_ it just, what was the thing Eddie said? Barnes couldn’t even.

In his experience, After Steve only lied while playing cards or to downplay the probability of danger during a mission. Scratch that. Steven Grant Rogers would cheat at cards when he was Before Steve, After Steve, and whatever came next. The Valhalla place Thor talked about seemed nice; he wondered if Valhalla allowed super soldier hooligan card grifters.

Sometimes, when all of the Avengers left, Barnes wondered if they would tell him if something happened to Steve. Months ago, he had told his fear to mission assist Nat. Nat was like him in many ways. She had been trained by the Soviets, she was a soldier before anything else, and she loved knives. In addition to these qualities, Nat was exceptional mission assist in two other ways. At first she had not liked Barnes very much, and the feeling was mutual. He came to understand that this stemmed from a need to protect Steve. As their alter egos, Natasha and Steve worked well together and she had saved his life. It placated Barnes that the redhead was willing to kill protecting Captain America. The second way was more difficult to grasp. He had seen her necklace, with the arrow. He tried to ask about how he’d be notified if, if, _if._

“Barnes, remember this: if you hear me on the phone or through comms, and I tell you in English Steve has been killed, that will be our private code; a covert op or hostage situation. You’ll know we’re in serious trouble, and I can’t tell you without getting more people hurt. If I need to deliver the news for real, it will be face to face or over Jarvis’ screen. You’ll know it’s real because I’ll look you in the eye and tell you in Russian. Only in Russian.”

Barnes nodded and gave her a sort of arm motion that was like a hug. The necklace meant she understood.

Now, tonight, the apartment was empty. He knew Steve would be gone several hours. He went wheels-up on a mission to a HYDRA base and might not be back for hours. Might not be back for days. Might not be back. Might not—

He stopped. It didn’t help. Rogers would be back. He’d be back.

********

 

Barnes wished he could remember why that face, so much like the tailor’s, was in front of him. When he thought about the first day in Department X, he remembered feverishly looking for a way to send a message, slip through a crack into the outside world; anything. Everything was blank. He had been deranged with pain, fear, drugs and dehydration, and those were only the factors he could remember.

He thought he remembered that first room more clearly. An older man had spoken to him in Russian. When that didn’t work, another language. Then English. It was soft and halting. He didn’t practice English.

Barnes closed his eyes.

He could see the room. He had just arrived in Department X. He had been kicked on the floor by one of the soldiers that had brought him in. He had been running and, where? Where did he take the wrong turn? Machines. More than one prisoner. All men. All over 60. They were sickly, and the man who had spoken to him in English was very frail but he could still move quickly. Barnes was sprawled on the floor, his lip bleeding, while the man who was chasing him had taken a few steps back to speak on a radio. In very quiet English he hears “You be returned in one week for  uniform. They are safe with me. I promise.” Then Barnes gets picked up by the soldier, lifted partially by the exposed stump where his arm should be just for good measure. He hears himself screaming. The prisoner who spoke English will not get off the floor. He’s intently wiping blood off of the concrete floor. He bows his head in utter submission. And. And. He, what is it?

He conceals something under his knee.    

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the midst of a firefight, it matters how you're dressed.

Chapter 9

Business in the Tower moved at a steady pace. Eduardo had a project he was very excited about. An employee named Jess had asked for a private consult and it turned into building a highly specialized wardrobe blending traditional tailoring with more of the cool toys Stark had put at Eddie’s disposal. Jess had come in looking for a compression garment that stayed put under the arms but also allowed for quick athletic movement. He couldn’t give a lot of detail about what he did for SI, but he was missing two fingers and had a scar that ran from the middle of his stomach in an ugly slashing arc around to his spine. He was looking for compression garments that would give him the appearance of a flat, muscular chest in line with his masculine presentation.

Eddie agreed that a bunch of the compression wear on the market wasn’t very stylish or user friendly. ACE bandages were clumsy and weak, plus there was reliable medical evidence that it could harm the underlying tissue. Neoprene didn’t breathe and was irritating to the skin. No matter how you looked at it, compression was uncomfortable and Eddie welcomed the challenge to do better for Mr. Byron. So he was mocking up mini T-shirts with experimental materials in the shop then asking Jarvis for help with things like superbinding threads, compression matrix programs put inside buttons and concepts where George couldn’t even understand the words being said let alone how it would all work. He did mention it seemed to be the reverse of what DaNeesha had needed, and that gave Eddie something to think about in terms of structure and placement. Jess was agreeing to be a guinea pig for any full-scale shirt that looked promising as long as it had a failsafe zipper. Getting asphyxiated by an experimental shirt seemed like a particularly crap way to go when you’re working with superheroes every day.

George was aware the file containing information about his English family had been printed and sent to his apartment. He put it in a desk drawer, unopened. He wanted to know, to understand why there were holes in his life that nobody had ever accounted for. Accounting for them, though, might bring on an incident like after that nighttime encounter. He rationalized that agreeing to make a suit for Mr. Barnes meant he was inevitably going to meet the man soon. After he got that out of the way, then he would no longer be a terrifying figure in the night. He would be a client and maybe even a friend. Reading the file then would hardly induce trauma; it may bring peace and fond memories. Delaying the reading was logical and very sensible. He stood in the cutting room, gazing at his threads and avoiding engagement with his true feelings.

“Mr. Jarvis, at what time should I expect Mr. Barnes?”

“Around 2:00, Mr. Miles. Captain Rogers will be with him. There is a call coming through your landline now. Shall I divert it through this channel?”

“Yes, please.” Suddenly the room was filled with Esther’s voice saying hello. Eddie, understanding some things just aren’t a man’s business, decided he really needed to run downstairs to buy a muffin at the coffee bar _right now_.

“Hello, Esther! How are you doing?”

“We’re getting along quite nicely, thank you George!” He could hear her housemate Lidia moving around in the background. After that first Sunday coffee, then a movie, then one very nice dinner which ended…well…never you mind, Esther had become a real fixture in his life. Courting Esther had come as something of a package deal. To win the fair, if slightly spotted, hand of Esther one also must convince Lidia, their neighbor Ollie, plus Esther’s cat Eleanor.

“George, I’m having a few guests over for Shabbat. Can you come Friday at 6:00?”

He smiled. Could he? Yes. Would he ever be able to explain the part about being Jewish yet understanding nothing of Shabbat? That might be harder. He told her he would love to come and then signed off. Mere seconds later, Eddie reappeared with a muffin. With a mouthful of blueberry crumble, he motioned he’d be very busy in his office but, Mr. Miles should just call if he needed him for anything. He understood a lot, that boy.

Mr. Miles found himself getting more and more nervous as 2:00 approached. He knew there would be nothing to gain from showing it, so he busied himself making another bathrobe to keep in case someone ever needed to be stripped down to their all-together for a project. This was the smallest size. He started fussing with the collar. Then the belt loops. Then wondering why it needed a pocket. When the _hell_ would 2:00 arrive?

At 2:01, he heard the doors open. He took a deep breath and purposely lowered his shoulders. He strode into the front room and immediately extended his hand.

“Mr. Rogers! Wonderful to see you again. I saw the blue single-breasted on CNN—you looked very well. The tour must have been very successful!” He took every ounce of that praise, energy and good will and put it right into the hand of the next man, shaking it twice and grinning. “You must be Mr. Barnes. Any friend of Rogers’ is a friend of mine. Please come in.”

While he led them back to his fitting suite, his mind was racing, trying to process everything his eyes had seen in less than one second. He couldn’t believe it. It was him. Truly, standing there, absolutely no doubt. James Buchanan Barnes from the films. The handsome bad boy they had shown in the books and the big display at the Smithsonian. Of course the circumstances had been exactly the same when he first met Rogers. But—that felt…wonderful. Miraculous. Light and sunny and so very joyous. Pepper had mentioned she was taking Barnes because he was the scariest looking bodyguard she could think of. George was sure he was. When she looked at Barnes, Pepper saw the metal arm and long hair and naturally predatory posture.

George saw Korea. The men in 1953. They walked. They talked. They ate. But they weren’t who they _were_ anymore. George noticed they were in his suite and he heard himself offering beverages and making small talk but the only sentence his mind focused on was “what on earth did they _do_ to you, son?”

He forced himself back into his job and sat down with both of the men. He looked at Mr. Barnes and asked what the nature of the job would be and what he required from his clothing. Standard single dignitary protection detail in a formal setting. Very good. He took out one of the weapons forms, he’d need to know what Barnes planned to be carrying as he escorted Ms. Potts. He asked Mr. Barnes to come up to be measured and tried to find a good neutral topic as he did his numbers and wrote them down. Baseball was always a safe bet with Brooklyn boys, so that was what he and Rogers were discussing as George’s eye for detail was making notes about fit and fabric.

Getting the jacket around that metal arm was going to be a bit tricky, so he asked Mr. Barnes to remove his undershirt. Miles made no sound at all as removal of the shirt revealed jagged, ugly scars crossing from under the metal arm, around his back and from the neck down to the waist. He could see puckered holes that were either bullets or shrapnel. The arm itself seemed to be anchored into the shoulder with nothing mechanical to support the structure from under the arm. At the scapula level, there was a two-inch scar looking exactly like a lockstitch running down the edge of the shoulder. In the mirror, he could see four evenly spaced scars across one pectoral muscle, as though Barnes had been attacked with a rake. It looked like every injury had been tended to with good technology, but there wasn’t anything that could completely erase what this body had been through. Mr. Miles betrayed nothing as he measured. Absolutely nothing. He thanked him, waited for Barnes to put his shirt on, and then proceeded.

Rogers had just made a fairly good point about the strength of the Mets’ bullpen this year when Mr. Miles was moving to do the inseam. He moved the tape measure up and

“HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.”

Oh Lord. Oh Lord. Oh Lord. What had—what had happened? Oh Lord. Barnes had pulled as far away as he could, air escaping in a scream with no sound. He backed against the mirror and shattered the left side panel. How? How could Miles have been so damned stupid? He was disgusted with himself for his utter carelessness. It was glaringly obvious the man had been through hells the human mind was never meant to know and then HE approached a vulnerable area without permission. He could never forgive himself. This was his fault.

Rogers was standing but not approaching Barnes. He had a calm, warm look on his face but his eyes were tight. He was mouthing something like “Buck, come back. I’m here. It’s New York. We’re home in New York.” It was extremely soft. This was not meant for George’s ears.

“Just measuring your inseam, sir. Mr. Barnes, I have committed the most egregious error. A tailor is always supposed to explain the details of his measurements with a client and I was foolishly discussing baseball while neglecting my duties to you. I beg your forgiveness. If, if there is any way you would be willing to overlook my behavior I’ll finish measuring you and explain as I do it. We’ll let Mr. Stark buy a new mirror. I’ll tell him to order one that makes him look thinner, shall I?”

Somehow that broke the mood. Barnes removed his right hand from behind his back. George suddenly felt like retching when he understood Barnes had been holding a knife. Good god, how does a man hide a knife that isn’t found during a measurement session? What had happened to Bucky Barnes? When does a kid from Depression-era Brooklyn carry a knife to get a suit made? Barnes even helped him up. George nodded then started again. As he explained how creases in pants work, and how you do pockets, and breaks, and what colors you can choose, all that ran through his head in an unbroken loop was “do you know me because we hurt you? Do you know me because we hurt you? Do you know me because we hurt you?”

He asked about holsters, and knives, and anything else Bucky might carry for Ms. Potts’ protection. That seemed to cheer up the young man quite a bit. Wondering if Tony would allow for some new and extra-cool defense weapons made him smile, with his whole face. He clearly enjoyed being good with weaponry. George noted all of it.

At the end of the session, he promised the fitting would be much easier and done in time for Ms. Potts’ upcoming trip. There wouldn’t be time for a full three fittings because Pepper left in ten days. Having created an Estonian billionaire in 80 minutes, Mr. Miles’ view on timelines had relaxed quite a lot. He was not on the Row anymore, you know.

Rogers and Barnes left. Mr. Miles summoned Eduardo while he got a very, very strong cup of tea.

He explained the mess to Eduardo and the young man summoned a PA to help them clean up. They contacted Tony about a new mirror, but made it sound more like George backed into it. For reasons he couldn’t explain, Mr. Miles didn’t want that on Bucky Barnes’ permanent record.

That was Wednesday. On Friday night, he took a car to Esther’s, bringing a loaf of challah with him. He knew they’d already have some, but there was a nice bakery on 6th that did a beautiful one every Friday morning. He knocked and Lidia answered the door, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. He came in, said a very jovial hello to Ollie, then gave Esther a peck on the lips and handed her the challah, saying “Shabbat shalom.” Everything smelled wonderful, there was wine out on the table, and there were feet on the floor behind the couch. He stopped. There were feet behind the couch on the floor.

“Oh! I had said I was having people over! Uh…”

George had walked over and looked down. Never in a million years could he have credited this. For this first time since the history of ever George wished he had that camera Eduardo had on his phone. Bucky Barnes was laying on the floor behind the couch. Eleanor the cat was laying on the seam where his metal arm attached to the rest of his body. Eleanor was purring and Barnes was relaxed. He looked happy. Truly happy.

George turned around as he heard the toilet flush and water running, then of course it was Mr. Rogers coming down the hall as Barnes opened his eyes to see George gawping at him. Well, George thought, this is embarrassing as hell.

“Mr. Miles, have you met the cat?” Barnes was still on the floor and the cat hadn’t moved.

“Er, yes. As a matter of fact I have met her. Did so when Esther and I were stepping out to the movies for a bit.”

“Cat Eleanor is mission assist. Warmth and vibration are very pleasant and also Esther makes excellent cookies. In fact, all of your friends were mission assists before we met. I don’t think you knew that.”

“Well, no, Mr. Barnes. I had a pretty steep learning curve when I came to Stark.”

He could hear Rogers laughing. “Mr. Miles, do we agree we’re at a point where we can informally be Bucky, Steve and George?”

Mr. Miles took his eyes from behind the couch. “After turning my fitting room mirror into an ADS you’re damned right we’re Bucky, Steve and George.”

Intense laughter erupted from Steve, George himself, and, as hoped, Barnes. The others weren’t to know that George has purposely made a war-era Army joke, complaining that the fitting had turned his suite into an Advanced Dressing Station—what the British Army would have called a place where you’d remove a wounded man to another area to make sure he was OK. It was intended to be a joke only those three would understand. It was a way to clear the air. He glanced at Esther. He was relieved to see she approved of anything that made “Jimmy” laugh.

Shabbat was wonderful. The two candles were lit then Esther covered her eyes and said the prayers. George had hoped they would spark a tiny memory in the back of his head. No such luck. Then they sat, drank, ate, and told stories. Ollie told some very funny anecdotes about trying to get his apartment next door arranged the way he wanted. Lidia and Esther were having some adjustment issues living together but it was clearly from an excess of care, not lack of it. Steve told them what he could of the battle where Eduardo’s suit had been the star of the show as it got Clint into a very ritzy club. Jimmy had everybody in stitches describing how Clint couldn’t believe that he enjoyed Japanese food. Jimmy had eaten some very unpleasant slimy things, but mostly it was tasty and now they went to a little place together every other week or so. George looked at the table, the food, the candles. He was so fortunate to have this in his life. He glanced at Esther and grinned at how content she was. She was giggling thinking of Jimmy Barnes eating raw fish for the first time. He watched Steve’s face as Barnes mimed choking it down. George watched Steve blush when he had to admit he had moved to Brooklyn for the sole purpose of drawing out Barnes from wherever he had been hiding. The fact that Barnes and Rogers had been living mere meters from each other, with the help of almost everybody in the room, made him blush a more shocking shade of pink. Steve tried to save face by claiming he had gotten even with the unbearable scourge that was Barnes by going on sunrise jogs. 

Oh, my goodness, thought George. He had suspected before, but now he knew he was correct. The Jimmy here was so lively. He was funny. His metal arm was nothing more than a curiosity that made serving matzo ball soup awkward. When Barnes looked at Steve his smile was easy and his eyes were soft. As he was that night, he was the Bucky Barnes every American pictured as a timeless, dashing patriot.

Parts of James Buchanan Barnes were stored in the depths of hell that could erupt any time, in a multitude of terrifying ways. It made George very sad to think his friend, his hero, was impervious to every external threat in the world but might still be lost to a broken heart.

It was one day until Mr. Barnes would accompany Pepper to her event. She was going to be facing many rich and important people, trying to keep SI a player in global development and finance. DaNeesha had delivered bagels to the suite yesterday. She reported to both of them that Barnes had cut his hair and grown a beard in an attempt to slightly disguise himself. Everybody had the same thought. If HYDRA was there, they were damn well not going to get their hands on him ever again.

At noon, Eduardo asked if it was OK to take his lunch hour, and Mr. Miles readily agreed. There seemed to be an absolute gaggle of women waiting to speak to Eduardo. Mr. Miles never doubted his assistant’s fidelity to Magdalena. This was, however, a fairly bizarre thing happening, whatever it was. DaNeesha and Eduardo then went into his suite, along with two other women, and they seemed to be eating bagels and all talking about something out of a soap opera.

Well, it wasn’t his business. Plus he had more than enough to be getting on with. But they were quite loud. George didn’t mean to eavesdrop but there were so many interesting things he finally quit pretending and just listened in like the little old biddy town gossip he clearly was. It was fun! From what he could gather, Thor had been at the Children’s Hospital and was seen flirting with a beautiful nurse. Thor was the beau of an astrophysicist named Jane, who must have been one of the women that came in. DaNeesha was reporting there was talk of “5 year plans” and marriage but also of “accepting we can hold people near our hearts forever but that doesn’t make you less lonely at night,” and then someone named Darcy saying maybe this was all for the best because it wasn’t meant to be, and _then_ they started talking about marriage rituals on another planets and George began to wonder if everybody involved in this gossip session was entirely sober. _They should write a TV show about this,_ he mused. He would certainly tune in.

George got back to his work. A plan, really. A risky plan. Very risky. The black suit was completely ready, the shirt underneath had gone through “the works,” the required tailoring was done. But. It nagged at George. It nagged at him so, so badly. He remembered the stories at Esther’s. He remembered the extraordinary lengths Barnes had gone to trying to watch over Rogers without being detected. At long last, he realized he had a source of help he hadn’t tapped. In desperation, he asked Jarvis.

“Jarvis, you have access to conversations I’m not privy to. Please. Tell me if my plan will only make things worse.”

“George, I can’t predict anything with certainty. My final reply to you is that we have gone to fairly extraordinary lengths to disguise Mr. Barnes from the outside. What remains inside is only for him to know.”

Right. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time he had made an utter ass of himself. He removed one of his signature white pocket square handkerchiefs from the accoutrements and looked for his bright white thread.

Two nights later he and Eduardo stood in George’s apartment, staring wordlessly at the horrific destruction at the convention running over and over on the news footage. A madman had walked into the hotel and blown himself up. CNN International was calling it the worst attack on European soil since the nightclub attack. Eduardo called a nearly hysterical Magdalena to assure her and reassure her nothing was happening at the Tower or in New York. They desperately looked at the footage for Pepper and Barnes. Eduardo had the remote and he could do new things George had never seen before like stopping the TV then starting it again. When they finally found Pepper standing in the street they hugged each other. She was bleeding and shoeless. Barnes had carried her there, and then it looked like she was pointing and screaming. As there were people running and smoke ballooning out of windows and doors they could see Barnes lifting pieces of rubble. He carried people from the area where the lobby had been. It looked like some of the bodies were dead. Eddie remarked that carrying a dead person must be so awful. He was in the middle of this thought when George said “Pause! Please! Right now!”

Eddie had no idea what they’re looking for. George stared at the image for several seconds, looked back at him and said “Is Barnes wearing a pocket square?”

“Mr. Miles, have you lost your mind? LOOK AT THIS.”

“No, please, Eddie. It’s important. Trust me. _Do you see it?_ ”

They rewind twice more. Both men agree: they see a sliver of white coming up from the pocket. Eddie is certain Mr. Miles is in shock and has him sit down and drink something. Eddie mentions the suit is ruined. They do have a bit of a laugh, wondering how many things they might make in their time that will get used for one day only. At 9:00 pm, Jarvis announces over a channel that carries through all of Avengers Tower that Ms. Potts and Mr. Barnes are in international airspace and neither is seriously injured. Eddie and Mr. Miles spontaneously burst into tears, and they’re not certain why. They aren’t alone, though. It takes the whole building a couple of days to resettle and get back to business as usual.

Barnes will deliver Ms. Potts to Tony exactly as he had promised. He knows he has done well. He performed first aid in the plane, calmed her, and got Tony to quit being the insane shouting man he knew Stark would be until Pepper was in his arms again. Barnes must change out of his suit. It’s destroyed. Pepper promises him a closet full of new ones. That would be pleasant, he thinks. He starts to undress in the plane. He is self-conscious of his scars until he realizes the lady holding a T-shirt for him to wear does not seem frightened. She seems. Appreciative. He asks if she might use a wet cloth to dab away blood on his chest and back because his metal arm is bothering him. It’s not, but she is smiling and taking a long time. This is how women look at After Steve. It is very, very enjoyable. She asks if she could take a “selfie” with the “hero who saved Pepper Potts.” This is taken before he puts on the T-shirt. He puts his good arm around her and tries to smile a little. Barnes, of course, has no idea that this picture will “go viral” and every female friend (plus several male ones) the woman has ever had will experience jealousy.

New suits could be fun. He likes wearing clothing that covers the arm if he wants it to. He could also wear black utility pants with a softer, nice shirt. It would be practical for carrying weapons but look nicer than a T-shirt. He had discovered the Bucky-person wanted to look nice at certain times. He could go to the tailor. Maybe not the measuring. New suits. But—no. **_No_.** Must retrieve this jacket. MUST retrieve this jacket at all costs. He waits until everyone on the plane is busy and gets to the jacket. Pocket. OK. OK. Relief. Retrieve, check for damage, conceal as necessary.

Everybody has turned out to meet them when they land. Tony is not a total jerk; in fact, he says something about Barnes receiving free coffee with sugary things in it for the rest of his life. Steve is there. Steve waits the second he always waits. If Barnes does not want to be touched, he’ll shake his head. Touching is fine right now. Steve gives Pepper a big hug and then wraps his arms around Barnes. Barnes can feel some of the irregular metal from a damaged finger rip the shirt fabric a bit. Steve says he doesn’t give a damn about the shirt. They can go home, and eat breakfast, and it will be good. But Barnes needs to change. Even away from Steve. From _Stevie,_ his mind supplies from somewhere deep in the past. Give him one minute, he has to change.

He goes to his bureau. He goes to the bottom, underneath everything. He removes the handkerchief and places it with the note. Nobody else must know about the note or the handkerchief. It is mission imperative. Not because it’s secret—though it is—but because it’s. What is the word? Cherished. It is cherished.

The handkerchief is inside the folded note which reads

_Mr. Barnes,_

_Here is everything you require for your trip. I wish you the best of luck. I am also including a piece which you did not order, namely, this white pocket square._

_You remember that in our time, your original time, a handkerchief could be a token given by a person as a remembrance or keepsake. It was a discreet way to hold someone dear close to your heart. If I have mistakenly enclosed the incorrect handkerchief, I beg you forgive my mistake and we shall speak no more of my foolishness._

_Yours, G. Miles._

The material came pre-folded to be placed inside his front jacket pocket.

Barnes knew people were scared of the Not-Bucky who was not funny, not relaxed and not nice. The Not-Bucky never let friends touch his hair or hug him. They were afraid HYDRA or somebody else might try to make him into the Asset again. Even when he did the right thing Tony was still worried. Steve always worried, no matter what. Barnes was a good soldier and it mattered who gave the orders.

He was also some of the Bucky-person, the new Bucky in Barnes who could make cookies and laugh and go swimming. Bucky was still a good soldier. Almost nobody understood that there was _already_ somebody giving new orders. He had one mission that could not be countermanded. Mr. Miles gave him a “remembrance” of that.

While the rest of the world watched with awe as Pepper Potts was bodily carried out of the rubble by Barnes, a potentially unhinged, metal-armed aberration, Mr. Miles was watching another thing entirely. He was the only other person on the planet who understood that Barnes, visible Barnes, was a good soldier doing his job; delivering Ms. Potts to safety no matter the personal sacrifice. But it was Bucky inside the suit.

Bucky was doing something else. Over his heart he wore a plain white pocket square with unobtrusive embroidery in the bottom corner. In all-white thread was a circle, around another circle which encompassed a star. Mission knew exactly what to do; return to where his heart belonged.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments are a huge, huge boost. Thank you for being excited about what Mr. Miles and Eddie are up to (and what Cap and Barnes should be up to).


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even the past receding in the rearview mirror eventually catches up with you.

Eduardo had made excellent progress on the shirt collection for Jess. After only one setback, which caused the suite to come alive with Jarvis announcing “Mr. Byron is no longer able to breathe. I repeat: Mr. Byron is no longer breathing. Engage emergency zipper protocol,” everything had been corrected and the shirts were under construction. It was autumn. Other than some standard orders from SI staff looking to update their wardrobes, nothing exceptional was going on. Mr. Miles had put it off as long as he possibly could. The file would need to be opened. Not only had he avoided the file, it had reached the point where he didn’t even go to that corner of the room. This was simply ridiculous. Mother and Father had loved him. Whatever was in the pages couldn’t change that.

He took a Friday off, announced he was headed north to look at some fall leaves, and had a Stark driver take him to a lodge in Vermont. He had no idea why he had thought of Vermont except that it seemed like a place he wouldn’t run into anybody he knew. That, plus touristy places usually have a candy shop and he dearly loved candy.

He didn’t lie to Esther about the trip. On the contrary, she knew what he was doing and understood he wished to be alone. Lidia pointed out, from the background on the speaker phone, that they clearly had a history of secret-keeping, when you took into account both Esther’s time as the phone operator cover for SSR AND all the time they spent as mission assist for Jimmy. Esther replied they weren’t that good at secret keeping, since they were supposed to keep Ollie’s new lady friend Ella private and Lidia spilled it to Steve and Jimmy the very next Shabbat they hosted. That Shabbat had been good for George, as it gave him the opportunity to take Esther for a little walk and explain the file. All she said was “I look forward to learning whatever you care to share with me.” Women like Esther didn’t come around every day, George mused. Women like Esther didn’t come around every decade, even.

Eduardo had insisted he bring along his Starkphone. He thought about the cell phone as he looked out the window, scenery and other cars lulling him into calm. Eduardo, after watching Mr. Miles spend over two minutes attempting to call Esther and instead arriving at a game he was calling FarmCrush, had taken things in hand and made the phone much easier to use. There were now only ten options. Mr. Miles turned it on, he pressed the green button that clearly looked like a phone and ten circles appeared. In the circles were pictures of people he was likely to call. The first was Eduardo himself, smiling in the tailoring suite. All he had to do was press the circle and it called Eduardo. When they were done speaking, he pressed the button with the red phone on the screen and Eduardo went away again. Marvelous. In the other circles were pictures of Esther (obviously he would get Lidia, too), Ollie, DaNeesha (smiling and holding a piece of toast), Mr. Rogers (a photo taken from a Shabbat. He looked relaxed and not at all Captain-ish, if that made sense) and a picture of Pepper sitting in his fitting room enjoying some tea. The remaining pictures had Tony Stark, rakishly modeling one of his new shirts that George had created (a daring purple that only a man like Tony could pull off in the boardroom), a picture of his own apartment (press that and Jarvis came on) and the last two he hoped he never had to touch.

Those last two buttons were far away from the other buttons, so it would be hard to press them by accident. Button number nine had a big red cross on it. If he had a medical emergency, all he had to do was press that button and stay by the phone and somehow medical people would know where the phone was and come help him. The last circle was larger than the others. It was at the very bottom. It had a picture of Mr. Barnes on it, taken when he was wearing a black undershirt that showed his large metal arm, red star highlighted by the lighting in the picture. Mr. Rogers, Mr. Barnes and Eduardo had all been in the tailoring suite when that picture was taken. They explained that Mr. Miles would need to push the last button twice. That meant it couldn’t be activated by accident. If he pushed and held the last button twice, Steve and Bucky would come.

Steve and Bucky would come, but they would be Captain America and Barnes at their most frightening and lethal. They would be willing to do whatever had to be done if George was in mortal danger. He needed to keep the phone with him. Steve told him they’d still see where it was even if it was turned off. Barnes added “Unfortunately, the bad guys know that, too. They might toss it away to confuse the Avengers. The phone is only useful to us if the bad guys haven’t ever taken it off your body.”

If he could not keep the phone, Steve continued, he was supposed to swallow the little metal thumbprint that came on his Stark Industries vacation card. They could track him anywhere in the world. There was a very clever trick and Steve showed him how to pop it out. He then popped it back in. Eddie said “Mr. Miles, I know it sounds silly, but I’d really feel better if before you left you got trained to use this. You always made me measure twice, right? Some things you only get one good chance. Barnes and Steve agreed with me, so we’re going to have a short rehearsal. Everything short of swallowing the print, of course. So. Let’s get you kidnapped and then our friends with a ‘very particular set of skills’ will save you.”

George sat down and popped out the thumbprint.

Bucky deadpanned, “Look. I found him.” Steve hit the arm Bucky was using to point with. In a good way.

They made George practice twice more seated the regular way, once with his eyes closed, once using one hand, then on the last time he was on the floor when suddenly Barnes let out a terrifying scream of howling rage. George fumbled it, but wasted no time in still getting the print out. The training staff agreed that Mr. Miles had it mastered. Barnes helped George up and shook his hand. “You can perform in stressful situations. Commendable, Mr. Miles.” Obviously Mr. Miles would never be pushing button number 10. He was a tailor, for crying out loud. Still, if “Say Hey” Willie Mays ever wandered by your bush league then told you had a good arm, you’d write it in your diary. George nodded his thanks and figured Bucky Barnes was the world’s leading expert on performing in stressful situations. This commendation would go in his diary, he thought, probably with a notation that he was such a silly old man.

George arrived, thanked his driver, checked in and then got out for some air before tackling the task ahead. He got a light dinner, picked up four chocolate caramels (two milk, two dark) and went back to the lodge. He made a point of looking at trees for a few seconds so he could say he had. Then he went to his room and removed the file. He opened the first page. He expected to see a military form, or BEF papers. The British Expeditionary Force was the British Army in Europe from 1939 to 1940 until something more permanent and organized could be arranged.

 It wasn’t. It was a handwritten note on Stark’s stationary.

_George,_

_Anything you need, get it credited to the room, the lodge’s owner has been told you have an open, unlimited tab. I wish I could say the Starks come out looking like heroes in this one. We don’t. Please don’t make me wear ugly suits or anything,_

_Tony_

This was not the beginning he had expected. Oh, heavens.

He spent four hours going through the file, in order. He thought he’d be able to take it in at once, knowing this was ancient history and in the end it was much better to know than remain in the dark. But it wasn’t better. It was so, very much worse.

The file started with an outline. It was a simple scheme, really. It looked like the British government had been determined to increase intelligence gathering from the moment Herr Hitler proved himself with the Beer Hall Putsch of November 1923. Despite pushback from some of the Royal family, the Committee of Imperial Defense forged ahead. A [redacted] number of men without families moved to Germany and established covers as tailors, dressage coaches, footmen, butlers; any profession the English had a reputation for being good at that could travel onto the continent. It looked as though agents were planted in certain households and reported on political activity via a radio system. Those men were thought of as the CID First Division. There were three divisions all told, as described in separate parts of the file.

After the overview was the military record of how these plans progressed from 1937 forward. In documents stamped “EYES ONLY,” George saw the Brits were able to secure some political assets in the German cities where their original operatives had been sent.  By that time, the men had established covers. They had friends, wives, and, in most cases, children. These families took a holiday to “visit an uncle” in England every summer. The “uncle” was the Committee of Imperial Defense, then merged into Special Operations Executive. In reality, the stately homes were run by the Division and were a masterpiece of propaganda and enticement. It was 8 weeks of very luxurious country homes, tennis, sunbathing and horseback riding. None of the guests knew each room was bugged so that SOE officers could hear the families discuss political allegiances. That information let handlers approach the potential assets with exactly what they needed to hear. Several of these connections (often the wives) could be persuaded to spy in exchange for extraction the minute it was clear German civilians would be under attack.

By and large these “first wave” spies were very effective in reporting back to handlers at MI-6. From 1923 to 1937, only one operative was discovered. In 1935, a “butler” had been seen copying notes from his employer, Herr Hitler’s largest financial supporter in Nuremberg. As instructed, he’d run with nothing but the clothes on his back. Fortunately, he knew to run to a safe house in Nuremberg. After changing into informal clothing purchased in France then hidden in the safe house, he took some money hidden in a push-broom handle. He left the city and took advantage of Europe’s still-porous borders to take a train to France. George couldn’t see why the detail of his escape was relevant, but it seemed a pretty daring and thrilling thing. He hoped the chap lived to be 90 and bored his grandchildren silly with embellished accounts of his heroism. He hoped they embellished the accounts to their friends until the old man was practically James Bond.

The “Second Division” operatives, the teenaged children of the first wave, were given large sums of money to sign on to the German army the moment they turned 16. The boys had the advantage of Hitler Youth tactical training and a kindly “uncle” who would forge the papers to make them 18 and help them enlist.  Whitehall knew these assets came with bigger risks; after all, they had lived in Germany most of their lives and would be betraying friends. All they could do was hope the indoctrination from their fathers and memories of summers in England or Wales would prevail. Whitehall wanted them to become officers, hopefully keeping them in an information-rich environment off the front lines. Once a week, through a radio scheme Stark blacked out, these men reported Axis activity. These second-wave operatives had an enormous advantage over any other spies England could send. They were native Germans. They could prove they had been born there and their bilingualism meant they could translate documents and intercepts.

George noted with astonishment that two young aspiring architects, brothers, smuggled the entire blueprint for an improved Panzer tank by getting a job painting the office of a Reich technician. They knew every worker would be patted down before and after the day’s work. They would never get away with pads or cameras. So, the night before they shaved each other’s head and bodies. At work one drew the left half on his brother, his brother drew the right half on him. They wrote every helpful thing they could find on their chests and backs. They wore painters’ caps, finished painting the office, and then laid low for another six days. Wearing suits and smart fedoras, they visited their “grandfather,” a “cousin to an English lord whose sympathies lay with Herr Hitler.” Once in his hotel, they re-shaved their heads. He took pictures of the schematics and notes and then asked them to recite every other scrap of information they could recall. George imagined they had their first full bath in quite a while, as well.

Only four months later, the older brother was caught in a raid and both brothers were sent to the front. A handwritten note in the margin said their mother ended up in Ravensbrück concentration camp. He couldn’t find a corresponding note for the father. George took off his bifocals and squeezed the bridge of his nose a little. This family had been gone for all but three or four years of his life. He couldn’t have told you why, but he was desperately sad for them all the same.

George ate a caramel, looked out the window into darkness, then picked up the section on Division III. These documents covered the program that concerned George’s family. It looked like a forest of paper had passed between every level of the British government, blaming everybody else for not having a response to the Polish invasion. SOE and MI-6 had failed to place enough assets in Poland to adequately cover the movements of German troops after the sudden takeover of September ’39. It was a shocking miscalculation, in George’s opinion, although he understood he had the benefit of hindsight. With all his talk of _Lebensraum_ and such, Austria in ’38 and the Sudetenland in early ’39, Hitler’s takeover of Poland should have been a goddamned given. Even after signing a treaty to protect Poland, that arsewipe Chamberlain had REFUSED to bomb Germany as thousands of Poles a day were dying in defense of their homeland. Poland had been strategically sacrificed while the rest of Europe got their shit together. _GOD DAMN THEM!_

He stopped. Even though he hadn’t spoken the words aloud, that was the strongest language he had thought to use in a while. But not as strong as he felt. Not the strongest by a long shot.

There was a letter from MI-6 to a midlevel functionary at 10 Downing Street suggesting it was too late to put assets for the Crown in place, and thus the only expedient solution was to find Poles willing to spy for them. Specifically, they wanted to know what was happening within the ghettoes and camps that Hitler was erecting virtually overnight. SOE and [redacted] hastily put together a plan: find Poles willing to sacrifice everything to spy for the Allies. The Crown needed information and they needed it yesterday. There wasn’t time for holidays in the summer or promises of a better life in London.  The government would identify people with the skill sets they needed most needed and contrive ways to get them working for SOE. In return, MI-6 would use the best leverage they could think of: children. The government knew they could entice terrified Polish families by offering to relocate their children to safety in exchange for information.

George looked through the project, now designated MILE/S and scanned for the name Szymański. It was there on the fourth page. First, a picture of his father holding him. It read _Jerzy Szymański z senym._ The second picture showed the elder Jerzy’s spouse Irena. George was a man who believed in handkerchiefs. He had several. He had thought he would need to dab at his eyes if he learned more about Papa and Mamusia. He had been wrong. George switched to paper tissues because he could not contain his tears. He never knew he could cry so much.

 _Jerzy z senym_. He understood no Polish but he understood this. It was “Jerzy and junior.” He had been named after his father. After so many decades of “Papa” he couldn’t fathom he had not remembered this. Jerzy was his father’s name.

Irena. What a beautiful name. From the Greek word related to “goddess of peace.” Beside each name was a photo. When one is young, time and age mean very little. He had no pictures of them. When he was old enough to understand, Father had taken him outside for a little walk in the park and asked George to please not be angry. They had not permitted the children to bring pictures of their birth family, as it might have increased longing for their old life. George also got an inkling that Mother would be very hurt if he thought of anyone else as being his mummy. As an old man, he understood yet still felt anger. He wished he had these pictures back then. So Papa and Mamusia wouldn’t fade away. Mother should have known that he would never forget who had made him a cake every year for his birthday and then ANOTHER cake to celebrate the day he came to England. Who let him wear his hair how he liked, even if it wasn’t fashionable. Who always let him make things out of bits of cloth while other boys played cricket.

He implored whatever came after this life that mummy knew he was sad, and angry and full of pain because of what the Nazis had done but somehow there was room in his heart for the woman who carried him in her body _plus_ the woman who raised him. He only ever had one mummy. She must have. After his rotation was done in 1954 he spent a month recovering and re-acclimating. Then came his time on the Row with Norton  & Sons. After realizing he’d like to have his own shop someday, learning the business side of the trade. He left in late 1961 for the States.  In a letter she had posted around the first of January 1962 she had given him all the news (gossip) about everybody they knew, and how her garden was going to be ghastly his year if rain didn’t start early this growing season, then how she had recently noticed the tomato pin cushion, the one she also kept by her machine, had gone missing. Completely vanished, and there it was newly restocked with top of the line needles and pins in several sizes. She finished by saying she had enough to be getting on with after noticing she was gaining weight and would need to let out seams again, would she ever learn to watch her figure like grandmamma had wanted her to, and saying the tomato must have gone to pincushion heaven. She hoped he was having a wonderful time, not working too hard, and to remember that these days nickel-plated straight pins were going rusty so fast they HAD to be stored in a cushion, however he obtained one, otherwise they’ll develop fine particles of rust that can push tiny stains around layers of white and off-white cloth.

A piece of advice any mother would write to her Polish-English son, gone to America to seek his fortune.

Perhaps Father was fibbing a bit; he brought Mummy in it to escape more awkward questions. Looking now, at the 3x5 black and white pictures, he saw a few things that surprised him. The first was that Jerzy Sr. was clearly older than his wife. Perhaps by about 15 years. He looked serious and handsome. His suit was beautifully made but the fabric looked worn. Next to his picture was a handwritten note that he was a tailor specializing in dinner jackets and formal wear. Irena, sometimes called by the Polish diminutive Irenka, was much younger, late 20s. Her hair was pulled back in a beautiful arrangement of curls. George saw her mouth and suddenly knew that people must have observed he had his father’s face but his mother’s mouth. Next to her picture, in faint pencil, he could see _karty perforowane_.

There were four more pictures in the file. One was in a small grassy area where they were holding him as an infant. Out came the tissues again. Two more were obviously taken without their knowledge. In one Irenka was walking with a small bag of food, maybe fruit? Surely not. It would have been out of season and extremely expensive. Jerzy Sr. at his shop. Had George spent much time there? Did he feel tailoring his blood because of his Papa’s influence? Seeing the window of his father’s shop George had a flashback—not a scary one; indeed, for perhaps the first time ever, it was welcome. A welcome and precious memory.

He was sitting on Papa’s knee, with Papa letting him watch how delicately and evenly he sewed around the buttonhole on a shirt sleeve. Loop, loop, loop, loop. George thought that they were beautiful, loops that make something out of nothing. On Papa’s knee, surrounded by cloth, needles, pins, chalk, a dressmaker’s dummy, and this shirt being put together by hand. Present-day George felt this memory was secure and he kept sitting in Papa’s lap. Papa smiling at him, and nodding, as Jerzy, his little Jerzy, watched him sew a different reflective thread into a nearly invisible hitch in the fabric on the inside of the collar. The hitch was only two millimeters or so. There were three strategically placed rows of this special, shinier thread that made a shelf so tiny that even as a little boy it looked miniature to his hands. As light, be it natural or indoor, hit the threads, it gave an extremely subtle shadowing effect around the wearer’s neck, and then brought a hint of a shadow down along the jaw, sculpting the face.

George stood up smiling, crying, laughing, trembling, slapping his forehead and holding his head in his hands. Yes. This was his history. There was no doubt, this one thing that could never leave him no matter what else he might ever know. He had impressed every man he had ever sewn for using the collar trick to take a few years off of his face by just such a delicate secret maneuver. It was the collar trick. _It was the collar trick_. He had flattered himself into thinking he had invented the collar trick. Papa had shown him and somehow it had lodged in there forever. He had better threads, and even micro-inserts he had been using (Pepper was right; with constant harping he thought he made Tony looked a very fit 39-40, if not the exact 38 he was pushing for).

George called down and asked for a cup of tea to be sent up, with a scone or something along those lines if they had anything. In five minutes it was there. He tipped the PA (oops! The bellhop. Or whatever. The staff person?) and was delighted to see hot water in a tea pot, a selection of three blends of tea, some milk, lemon, and sugar plus a blueberry muffin. It would do perfectly.

After his happy break, he went back to the desk. He looked at the last photo. The last photo made George regret the muffin. He dry heaved three times but never vomited into the waste basket by the room’s desk. Nothing came up in his memory, but he instantly felt dizzy and desperate. He had that scrambling rush to get to safety that he recalled when a shadowed, menacing Barnes had surprised him outside the tailoring suite.

George deliberately took a deep breath and closed his eyes. That “menace,” as it transpired, baked gorgeous treacle tarts solely for him, after having read that the English are fond of them. So he was—he had made an absolute pig of himself as Bucky watched with pride. The “menace” who secretly sported a love token of a good and honest man George had admired in his youth. The “menace” whose picture was on his phone, right now, ready to put himself between George and whatever sought to harm him. He _must remember_ that many things in the file may disappoint or hurt him, but he didn’t need to fear it. Just like his initial reaction to Bucky, maybe the file ultimately would bring him something he didn’t know he needed until he saw it.

 

Remember how much has already been gained by doing this, he thought to himself. The collar trick. You can do it more. Think through this. Who had taken this photo? Who in God’s name had taken this photo and watched, did nothing, while the backs of hundreds of people were trudging through the wall?

It was his wall. The smell. The bodies. Going through. This was what he had seen that night. He and his family were entering the infamous Warsaw Ghetto. The first stop on the long road of annihilation for 400,000 Jews. This was why the doctor had asked what year he had been born. The chances of making it out of the ghetto before deportation were almost 0%. By the time WWII had ended approximately 90%, **90%** of all Polish Jews were dead. George had a horrific feeling the file would explain how he became part of that 10%.

Division III. A branch of the SOE, Special Operations Executive. They had let his whole family go behind that wall. Why? He felt disoriented and sad. He decided to call it a night and read more in the morning. He washed his face and put on blue pajamas. As he fell into a restless quasi-sleep, he kept wondering why a tailor could be such an important spy.

Right before he fell asleep, Mr. Miles remembered he had loved to play hide and seek as a boy.

********

Barnes and Steve were eating dinner at a small salad shop. You paid a lot for vegetables and protein on lettuce but it was very healthy and that made Steve happy. He was worried Steve had not been happy lately. He had thought of an idea to make him happier, but it took planning. He had gotten permission from Stark, asked Mr. Miles to help with clothing, and everyone else on the team was prepared. Sadly, the cheer-up surprise would be a few weeks away yet. Barnes wished Steve could be happy right now.

He tried to be casual. He asked “Are you unhappy?”

Steve looked up. “Uh, kind of, yeah.” He fiddled with his fork. “You know Mr. Miles is reading the file about his family, right? Just got me thinking.”

Eddie had told Barnes about it. Barnes had gone into the suite to show Eddie his new knife. Eddie said it was really fun to think of different ways to disguise the knife in clothes. Barnes thought it was neat, too. He joined Eddie and Steve for burgers now. It was very relaxed and Eddie said he had some ideas about his arm but a doctor would never have to touch him. That sounded OK. “Yes, to learn why he was born in Poland but went to England during our war.”

“Yeah. That’s it, I guess. I’ve read a lot about what we missed, you know? If we had both come back, we would have known about TV, and women working at new jobs, and men could cook now and all that stuff. We would have seen African Americans fighting for their rights, and, other people still fighting for rights, the moon landing, computers, all of that. Rock music, America being friends with Germany and Japan again. We’d be older than Mr. Miles now. We’d probably be, nah. Never mind.”

Barnes had a lot to say. He did think about the family that never happened. Sometimes he was sure After Steve and Peggy would have gotten married. They would have had children. That should have been their life. But it wasn’t. Should he say that? But Steve was so sad. This line of thought was not helpful. He started with “at least we got frozen at the right time. To be together, I mean, the right ages for how we started, almost. It would be weird if you were 50. You dress like you are, but still.”

Inside he thought please, _After Steve, please think that’s funny, and the timeline, what I meant, shit, shit. Please think it’s OK._ It must have been. He was smiling.

“Excuse me, this is a brand new casual-wear shirt made exclusively for me by Mr. Miles and Mr. Alvarez. It has several hidden features that you wouldn’t even THINK to ask for, Barnesy the Dinosaur.”

Oooooh. He had seen the Barney creature on YouTube. It was purple and horrible and he would have fought it to the death if it came to life in their living room. Their salads were 95% eaten. It was seven blocks back to the Tower. “Just for that, if I catch you I destroy the shirt.”

Because Steve would never stop being Steve they had to clean off the table and leave a tip even though they had brought the containers of salad over themselves. Outside, Barnes heard Steve say “what the hell?” as he looked to the right. That split second was all it took. Dammit, he ran left as Barnes looked, falling for the oldest trick in whatever came before books.

Steve didn’t plan to lose, either. Once he made it into the building, he ran for the stairs. Thirty-two flights wasn’t much of a match for After Steve. But Barnes had much better knowledge of the building itself. Prowling around every night for months had its advantages. One of them was the knowledge that taking the East stairs meant you could use an unmarked door that led you to the pulley system. It meant you could pull yourself up from floor 3 to floor 20 by pressing a button and holding on. It was for non-enhanced people like Hawkeye to pull themselves to the levels dedicated to the Avengers’ private use so they wouldn’t waste valuable seconds running. As far as Barnes knew, only a handful of people were aware it existed.

As he reached the 32nd floor he threw himself at their front door and—VICTORY! He was there alone. Until there was a knock on the door and Steve was holding two cups of coffee. What the hell?

“Look at the note behind you, Buck.”

There, on the kitchen table, was a note saying “Ha Ha. I win. Back with coffee in a sec, loser.”

Unbelievable. Un.be.fucking.lievable.

He took a sip of the mocha with extra whipped cream. It did not erase the sting of defeat. Feigning total boredom, he said,

“Yeah, yeah. So, what’s so great about this shirt?” _Besides you’re in it?_

“I’ll show you. Take the roughest part of your arm. The stuff you haven’t repaired in a while. Now, slash it across my back.”

Steve made a motion towards his arm. Barnes felt a door slam shut. NO. There was nothing OK about this. He didn’t want to use the arm to hurt Steve. Or even the stupid shirt. It was a stupid shirt and a stupid bet and besides, upon closer re-examination, the shirt was actually quite nice. You could tell it had been made for him. The shoulders fit, and the bottom was narrower. This was all entirely, atrociously stupid.

“Uh. No.”

After Steve was still excited from winning the bet and laughing and being jumpy. He grabbed Barnes’ arm and said, “C’mon! It’s tear-proof! Try! Look! He grabbed Barnes’ finger, where one finger piece had been a little ragged lately and slashed it over his chest. “See! Nothing.”

It didn’t matter. Not OK. WITHDRAW. WITHDRAW. STOP TOUCHING MY HAND. Must not hurt After Steve. After Steve contains Before Steve and he is very fragile. Before Stevie needs constant assistance and the Bucky-person is screaming at him WITHDRAW WITHDRAW WITHDRAW. Back away. After Steve knew Barnes might hurt him and purchased clothing specifically to avoid this. He is dangerous. The arm is not his fault but it’s the only left arm he has now. He knows it ripped a hole in a T-shirt when they hugged by the plane.

“Oh—whoa. OK. Buck, sorry. I was just being an asshole. Sorry. I didn’t mean, I didn’t mean. Shit. I know what I wanted but this went pear shaped. So…yup. Uh. Will you tell me what’re you thinking?”

“I’m sorry you bought a shirt I can’t rip. It’s very nice. I, I, um. I don’t understand why you bought it, unless you believe there is a high probability of careless or combative contact with my left arm. I will agree to Tony performing basic maintenance on the arm to avoid this, if I have some say in how it’s done. Also, you look nice in the shirt.”

“Bucky, I’m not sure you understand why I bought it. I don’t think you get why I asked for untearable cloth”. _Because I want to dance with you, Soviet oaf-boy._ “It’s…wow does this suck. Buck, I didn’t get it because I’m afraid of your arm. The opposite. Complete 180. Do you read me, Sergeant Barnes?”

 _Maybe? I think so? If I’m wrong it all goes away. The beans on the roof and sparring and baking cookies and swimming and smelling you in the night, it goes away. If it goes away I don’t have anybody else. They’re all tied to your big stupid face and your giant muscled stupid body that every woman alive wants to pull into bed and you’re the only one that_ \--

“Permission to speak freely, Captain?”

“YES, SOLDIER. Anything, Bucky. Anything. Always. Tell me.”

“I know what happened to Mr. Miles’ father.”

“You… ** _what_**?”

“He ended up in Russia. I know now. I didn’t before. But I’ll have to tell him when he gets back. The memory is a fragment. It’s not complete.”

“Holy shit.”

“I had to tell you before. In case this is the only time. I have to tell you so you know everything.”

“Know everything before what, Bucky?”

“Before I say the other part.”

“I swear on my ma’s grave you can say anything, Barnes. Anything.”

“Every time they froze me, and used me, and wiped me clean, they used my body. My whole body. Do you understand? The Winter Soldier is not a person. He’s a machine. I…I belonged to them and I was a machine. Everything belonged to them. They took away everything. But I got even. There was one thing they couldn’t find. I made sure of it. It’s there, we just have to find it.”

“Do you mean a fragment, or an actual thing inside you?”

“Thing. I don’t remember where, but who. I can explain it to George.”

“OK, Buck. We’ll talk to him. He’s probably a little shaken because of the file, but the first chance we get when he’s back on his feet, we’ll do it. I swear. You said you had to say it before the other part. What other part?”

“Steve—I don’t know if I can. It’s, uh, it sounds…stupid.” _Not to mention I feel like a complete jackass here, dude._

  
“It won’t to me. I swear. I won’t even look at you. Whatever it is, tell me please. I really need to know.” He actually turned his back and looked out the big picture window. His throat felt clamped shut he was so nervous _. Why can’t superhumans beat answers out of their friends?_ Not that he would but, everybody has their limit. This waiting was worse than death. He thought about that a second. This waiting was worse than when he thought he was going to die. Nothing was worse than Bucky being dead. Nothing. If he had to stare out the window for the next year and a half to get the explanation, then, he hoped Jarvis would broadcast the Mets into the living room.

“Before, before all of this. The war, and the serum, and, yeah. Before it all. You, you sorta, needed me. You were gonna have a fat lip and black eye for the rest of your life, if I hadn’t shown up.”

“Hey now! I was getting better. At running.”

“Bullshit. You were just a faster bruise. And the coughing, the breathing. Then, your ma.”

“I remember all that, Bucky. What are you saying?” He tried to keep his voice neutral. He wanted to shake the man until every thought he ever had rolled out of his head like a gumball machine.

“You came and I was strapped down, remember? I needed you. Then you got us home. You led us in, every single time. I told you, I didn’t give a damn about Captain America. I followed YOU in, every time. When I woke up they told me you were dead. I thought ‘that’s it. End of the line. Nobody will ever need me again.’ And I was right. You don’t need me here. You’re faster, better adjusted, you have a team, more friends, better technology and a plan. I’m the fat. Trim me and the whole thing is better. I need you, not the other way around. You should be out there dealing with real threats, not in here requiring a special shirt for feeding time at the freak show.”

Steve didn’t know how to say it. He didn’t even know if he could do it. And if he could, what the hell happened then? There was absolutely no manual for this, somewhere between TM 9-1311 (year 1943)75-mm Gun M4/Airplane Mount M6 and TM 9-1326 (1944)105-mm Howitzer M3/ Howitzer Carriages M3/M3A1 every instruction manual in his entire fucking life left out telling your best friend that you are desperately, hopelessly, endlessly, STUPIDLY in love with him.

He used serum-enhanced instant recall to double check. Nope. Still no manual. So, he tried this.

“I have an idea. Go put on some pajamas.”

Barnes looked a little too surprised to argue. Rogers went in and grabbed some with goats on the pants and a Nebraska Cornhuskers Football T-shirt. Avenging took you to some places that weren’t particularly boring or exciting either way until you showed up.

He looked at Bucky. “Just an idea. Nothing you say ‘no’ to.” Barnes nodded.

“Do you remember that one winter where I coughed so hard you had to hold my stomach in or I’d puke?” Bucky nodded. “I can prove to you you’re not the fat that needs to be trimmed.”

He laid down on his left side, so Barnes’ metal arm would be under the pillow and his flesh arm would drape over Steve’s chest and pull him in tight. Bucky sat on the bed for a second that lasted about twenty years to Steve. Then he laid down behind Steve and put his right arm around him. Rogers curled his legs up a little and felt Bucky’s legs do the same behind him. He brought his hand up against Bucky’s and very gently pressed his fingers in between the other man’s fingers. He took a deep breath. The kind he could never take before, and felt Bucky’s arm and hand move with him.

“It feels like you’re holding me together, Bucky, whether you know it or not.”

Barnes could feel Steve’s heart beating through the T-shirt. “I could stand having the bad fragments if I could remember more of the good ones.”

“I remember everything about Brooklyn. I’ll remember for both of us. We’re home.”

 _You’re home_ , Bucky thought, as he tried to stay awake long enough to really, really remember this.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last, George has information about Papa and Mamusia.

 The next morning George went downstairs for toast, but instead had tea and a pancake with real maple syrup. When in Rome, his mind auto-completed for him. Facing the file might be easier in the day. He found the lodge had an enclosed sunporch. He went for a quick walk, again looking at a few trees, and forced himself to take in deep breaths while thinking of all of the good things he had experienced in his life. If it had not taken all of these bizarre twists, what might have become of him? If he stopped the next person on the street and told them that the Incredible Hulk wears a suit he designed to ask someone out on a date, or that the lad he calls his son has been having hamburgers with Captain America every week, they would do that patronizing thing people do to the old, which is speaking loudly in a falsely bright tone as they looked for a way to get him into emergency assisted living for seniors.

He resolved he’d walk back to the candy shop and buy himself every single thing he wanted if he got through more of the pile. Sometimes, being old meant doing some really fun things and by God, if that meant trying all 24 flavors of fudge they sold, then he might as well start as he meant to go on.

He sat on the sunporch. He was alone; everybody would be out looking at leaves. Well. As he had gotten in bed he had been wondering why a tailor would make a good spy. He had gotten as far as concealing things in clothing, or maybe being assigned to make German uniforms and he would learn a lot that way? He started on the pages marked Sept. 13, 1939 and it was clear that SOE and various other organizations were starting to find those who could report on troop movement, size of force, weapons held and approximate scale of the invading force to the Polish Army. This was important, but this wasn’t what his father was doing. He was still in the city. Papa, Mamusia and he were living in a middle-class neighborhood in a part of Warsaw that had a significant Jewish population. The laws came fast with no space to argue. No Jews on public transport. Then we’ll walk. No Jews can go to a cinema. Then we’ll read books. No Jews can sell things to non-Jews. Then we’ll tighten our belts. No Jew can move through the city unmarked. So we’ll sew on the Star of David. New law. New law. New law. George found he did remember that, wearing the star. Of course Papa was an obvious person to ask for help, and he couldn’t charge money because nobody had any. They would bring him a carrot, or the end of a loaf of bread, and he would sew on the stars for everyone in that family. George remembered, a little, when Mamusia and Papa had an argument about the stars. He remembered it because Mama seemed very angry but instead of being angry loudly they kept dropping their voices very, very low. When the argument was over, Mamusia and Papa came to him. He only remembered they looked sad and very, very tired. Then came the move.

As an adult, George found he still couldn’t understand how they had ended up in the Warsaw Ghetto when clearly somebody had reached out to Papa. That was the entire reason he was still here today. There were over 1,000 makeshift ghettoes in Poland, and escape was damned near impossible. They were the staging areas to decide who would be slave labor, who would be sent to extermination camps, and which lucky few might have something special the Nazis wanted to exploit, like being a set of twins, or having specialized mechanical knowledge. The fact that Papa was a tailor could, in this case, prolong his life. He was good at it and could work quickly. In time, he could even find ways to make uniforms in a more efficient manner. A skill like that could truly save your life. However, at a concentration camp, it would save your life. Your life. Not your son’s.

George decided he would purposely let his mind go back to those days. When George first came to New York, he briefly courted a young woman who took acting classes. She said the best way to have a real emotion was to remember something extremely small about a situation, then concentrate on that small thing until your mind is so filled with it the picture and the feeling gets bigger on its own. She then gave him a lovely example, focusing on the bow of her, well, lingerie. Good heavens. He’d better save that set of memories for another time.

George sat for about 20 minutes, and the one thing he picked was walking through the wall. He looked at that picture then let his mind take over. Holding Papa’s hand and walking through the wall. His mind idling as he ran through all of the things he might have remembered before about the ghetto but didn’t. Walking up the stairs to get to “their” room. It was extremely small, and there were no adequate toilets or clean water. Right—he was thirsty all the time. Papa told him there wouldn’t be any snacks anymore, but if George (Jerzy. He was Jerzy then. How odd that his mind filled in with “George”) was a very good boy there would be a special treat. What was the treat? Not food, nothing with other children although they did sometimes play. What was it?

There were other families in the room, too. One day there was a woman crouching in a corner and she screamed and screamed, men were holding up blankets to give her privacy, then, oh. Yes, the small cries and the adults weeping. He must have heard a woman die as she gave birth. What else? Papa sometimes came back with a potato or piece of cheese; that was special. He spent all day scrounging for food, although George understood he was surmising that now. At that age, he probably believed his father still went to his tailoring business. If Papa was scrounging, where did he get the food? Was his father connected to some organization? George stayed with a woman who also lived in their room. Why?

AH! YES! Mamusia left every morning. Yes! She had a job outside the ghetto wall, in a shop that was still attached to the ghetto. He suddenly remembered Mamusia wore a nice skirt with a smart looking blouse. He waved from the window when she left to stand in the line of people who were allowed to check out through the ghetto gate. His brain snapped back to the photo of her carrying the bag. Yes. It was that maroon skirt, made in a sort of sturdy twill, with a blouse. There was a matching jacket, he remembered. This picture was taken as she was walking towards the camera, with a guard in the frame. My god. This picture was taken after they had arrived. The bag had round shapes, almost certainly oranges. Yet she never snuck one back. Mamusia was bringing fruit towards the ghetto. She must have been photographed right before she turned to her left to enter the shop with machines. She was watched by the Nazis but at least she was in a clean building. The non-Jewish employees didn’t want to get sick, so she had clean water twice a day.

She said there were enormous machines, running cards all day long, thousands and thousands of them. If he was a very good boy then as a special treat for his birthday he might get to see the machines. It would be so exciting. He imagined it for weeks. Machines that had cards in them. He pictured giant machines making cards that said nice things on them, or had pictures of flowers. The very tall stacks of cards and she knew all about how each one worked, and what the machines did and— The machines. For fun he got to crawl inside and take a ride. It was so early it was still dark. Mamusia must be the most important worker to be the first at work today. He must never tell anybody. Not anybody, ever, about his birthday treat. Mamusia smiled and said “you’re the best hider anywhere! I love you. Stay hidden.”

He remembered how hot it was, all of the other office machines running. He was in there so long but he never told anybody. Men came in and took the machine away. He still didn’t say anything. Machines. Machines that Mamusia knew how to run. She had worked in an office. George flipped frantically through the pages.

MILE/S. Medical, Infrastructure, Logistics, Engineering/Stark. It was his mother. His mother was one of the spies recruited to help the Allies. By reading three pages of what she had reported on, it was abundantly clear she was one of the greatest technical minds of her time. She understood the machines simply by observing one. She would then draw detailed pictures along with part specifications and functions. These were delivered to the nice man down the road who made sure the IBM executives got fresh apples or oranges every week if they fancied some. Mamusia never stole any because she could not possibly risk the attention.

He went into the front desk and asked the man if he could use his computer to translate something for him. The man said “sure thing” and then George typed in _karty perforowane_ :

 **Punched cards**.

In 6 Rymarska Street, across the street from the gate of the Warsaw Ghetto, his mother surmised everything that IBM could do with these cards and she reported it to the Allies, in a special scheme paid for by Howard Stark. In return, he was taken out of the ghetto and relocated with the English family that raised him. What had happened to his parents after that? The files stopped.

He limited himself to five fudges and a box for Esther. He called the circle on his phone that showed his apartment and told Jarvis leaves are exhausting and he had decided to come home. The SI driver put his baggage in the trunk and George kept the boxes of chocolate with him in the backseat. He was almost asleep when the moment appeared in front of him as though he saw it on television. Papa’s needle. That was the treat. Papa had brought needles and threads because you never knew how helping mend clothing might make a friend or earn you a favor. George’s treat was that Papa let him sew small stitches or take them out. Taking stitches out. Papa’s last special treat for being a good boy was he got to pick out the threads that kept the yellow star on his coat.

********

JARVIS alerted Mr. Stark that George Miles had sent for his driver. Tony knew eventually he’d need to answer all of the questions Miles would have when he returned from reading the file. The bitch of it was, all of the answers came back to the fact that his father had done a good thing but for the wrong reasons. His father, and Tony truly believed this, was not a bad man. Selfish, short-sighted, a lousy husband and a worse father, a skirt chaser, occasionally a drunk… wait, where was he going with this? Right. Howard. Not demonstrably evil. He saved 15 children from certain painful death. But he had done it to get information he could, and did, profit from.

SOE knew Stark wanted the Allies to win, if for no other reason than he wanted to keep chasing pretty girls and the Nazis didn’t seem like a fun-loving lot. SOE and Polish [redacted] agency approached Howard Stark with something like a trade: fund this spying program in Poland, and you can get all of the technical info you want. Just make sure what we’re getting helps the war effort as well. So, Stark decided on 15 people who could report on technology that interested him. In the case of Irena Szymański, Tony was certain how his father had found her. He dined regularly with the head of the Mathematics and Computer Science at Krakow’s prestigious Jagiellonian University. The dean had given him names of five people who would cooperate to keep their families safe.

Irena had been the very best person for the job; she had been the first Polish person to see where IBM was headed with the perforated card technology that eventually became computers. IBM was actually a major part of the Nazi juggernaut. They catalogued and filed millions of Jews, gypsies and other “undesirables,” then made sure those people were disposed of in a clinical fashion. Not many knew it, but the very first numbers tattooed of the arms at Auschwitz were the numbers IBM had assigned to those prisoners. Eventually every camp had their own system, but IBM was doing it to check their own proficiency.

Tony didn’t believe for one second her technological genius saved her boy. Her long curly hair and sensuous lips were what got her the job. George Miles was alive today because Howard Stark was a womanizer of the highest order. He rubbed his hands through his hair and looked at the rest of what his father had to report on the matter. Tony could hear his father’s voice making charming excuses, even now. Naturally Howard Stark didn’t want this technology to kill people; he only wanted to make a computer that was better, faster, sleeker and, if at all possible, sexy. Think of what it would mean when every household in America could have its own computer! Meeting Irena in person and looking at her softly styled hair and bright red lips while they talked was a bonus.

Now, getting her child to England did get botched. There was no denying that. He should never have been put in the ghetto, and smuggling him out in a broken card sorter had cost about $2,000 in bribes. But it worked. There were 14 other people that had info Stark was willing to pay for. A few were in fields similar to Irena’s. Two knew how bridges were going to be fortified for the war effort. Stark thought that info could be useful in bidding for contracts in the US, so that was worth some money to him. Their kids went to a nice farm in Wales, with sheep. Who doesn’t love sheep?

He had two half-Jewish Medical geniuses that were willing to report on the experiments being run in Nazi camps. The “half” was important because their interfaith parents had agreed to leave the boys uncircumcised. They both spoke German at a native level and went in posing as doctors who would “help” the Nazi scientists conducting horrific experiments. Josef Mengele was the most famous of these barbarians but there were twenty others that committed similar atrocities. Both men never believed they would never get out alive, no matter what they said to Stark. The price for their sacrifice was relocation of their wives, children and one of their mothers to the United States. Stark looked around for some cheap real estate, found a cute little town in Kansas that was about 50% Polish and away they went. Twice a week, the doctors traded packages with a guard that had been bribed with enough he could keep his sister, a woman with severe physical and mental impairments, safe from the monsters looking to eradicate the Untermensch. The doctors passed out reports of medical experiments while the guard brought in tiny ampules of drugs. The doctors waited until the experiments were going to become truly horrific and then one would slip the ampule down the subject’s throat. It was one final mercy, which they felt was all they had to offer.

At the end, both doctors waited until their own death was certain and then went through the camp, distributed every helpful drug or wound dressing they could to anybody that might benefit. They euthanized each other, each man pushing the needle into the other and then waiting for the drug to work, about five minutes. Probably a long five minutes, Tony thought. Five minutes to look back on your life, good moments and bad, and to see the agony in the faces of people they had helped torture until they could deliver their secret relief. Probably to beg forgiveness, too, if there was any to be had. Before the cave, before the Iron Man suits, Tony had been the “Merchant of Death,” and he was all too familiar with begging for forgiveness from the silent dead. He believed the men died at peace. They must have loved each other like brothers to do all that, knowing only the other could truthfully avow they were not monsters but angels.

Logistics, OK, that one you could chalk up to a little American pride and patriotism. Howard thought it would be hilarious to watch Hitler blow a gasket when he sent his troops to do something and every. single. time. the supplies failed to show up. It probably was, Tony thought with a small smirk. Howard’s best Logistics spies were young men who loved beautiful cars. Tony could almost hear his father’s pitch. _Here. Take this car worth more than you make in five years, drive it around Europe, and get me specs for this, this and that. Don’t care how, just do it. Then find a lovely young dame that hasn’t been getting the attention she deserves and show her what a real good time looks like._ None of those guys had any kids. The cars were payment enough, especially when nobody had gas money and Stark’s boys seemed to never run out. Plus, they could make a little on the side in black market trading and delivering things between bases. Howard Stark of all people understood that, sometimes, the biggest thing a young man really wants in life is to make a splashy entrance. Only one of them got caught. Damned shame though, never even a chance to bribe him out of a jail. Shot right there on the road.

The Engineers were the most complicated of the lot. People like Irena could pass along specs and details of how machines were working and Howard more or less could see it in his head. But the Engineering specialists in electrics needed to show schematics, wiring, how it worked from destination to destination, you had to account for different voltage—it was a nightmare. There were three people in Poland that did that for him. He got the three of them hooked in with the Catholic Church, hoping they’d more or less be left alone as the anti-Jews. They did pretty well. Two had kids; they were sent to England under the MILE/S program. One guy was the real deal. Priest. Karol Wot-something. He wanted to be a playwright, and he was a member of an underground theatre company but he also tinkered with machines. Sent out the schematic for an entire radio relay into Berlin by drawing it hidden in an enormous painting of a stained glass window. If you put in under blacklight, only the schematics showed up. Brilliant. Sweet guy. Good heart. Tony briefly wondered why his name sounded so familiar.

What Tony would have changed, if he could have changed anything, was that most of the MILE/S kids, 15 in all, were supposed to be reunited with their parents. But it didn’t happen because nobody could have foreseen how serious the Germans were about the death camps. It was inconceivable. Nobody really believed in 1939 that, by 1945, Hitler truly was going to annihilate whole cross-sections of humanity. The whole damn thing had gone way beyond what even Howard Stark could control. And he didn’t try. He didn’t go looking for the doctors, the IBM machinist, or the bridge experts with nine kids between them. Two of the Catholics actually did get caught. The Church wasn’t enough to protect them, in the end. Especially when the one was caught trying to ferry people to neutral countries. And that was that. They all died, and why should they be special? Millions who were special to their families, their friends, their bosses and neighbors and students and teachers, they all died. So did the people Stark paid. The difference was, between them, 15 kids got out alive. Through England, then some of them on to Wales and the U.S. Fifteen children, two wives and one elderly mother saved.

Then what the hell made Tony so upset? Well, for starters, _dammit, Dad_. It’s true he paid for the relocation, and a little more besides to keep the kids, under a scheme where some old uncle named Walt Miles died and left money in a will. That’s why they all had to have the name, so the money would go to them. But could he have gotten any of the others out? Was it worth trying? Tony would never know. He was uncomfortably reminded of a scene from a Liam Neeson movie, where he kept showing things he could have sold to save one more life, two more lives. He didn’t like that feeling. “JARVIS, would you ask Liam Neeson if he wants to grab drinks sometime? It’s been ages.” He liked Liam. Anybody who got to be a movie action hero at his age was a guaranteed laugh. Good times.

Back to the damn problem. One, could Stark have handled this better? Two, so why does Jerzy Szymański show up in all this? He wasn’t even a target. It had happened, that in marrying the beauty that was younger than he was he found one of the great technological minds of his time…so where did he go? Why would his name end up in direct connection with George Miles, the tailor that makes really good shirts and also did that thing with the hilarious Estonian billionaire blouse/shirt/thing that Clint would never, ever live down. That had to be the most fabulously ugly shirt in history and oh, dear God, it was perfect. It was perfect down to every last stitch.

Tony knew billionaires. _And most of us_ , he thought, _really do wear shit that ugly._

_George. Jerzy. Bucky. What the hell, Dad?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers, because I have included the name of a real, global enterprise in George's story I feel it's important to mention that the storyline about IBM is not fictitious. Hollerith machines, named after their inventor H. Hollerith, really did do what you read about here; they offered a chance to sort and process many types of punched cards. The machine's use was a piece of technology sold many times over until T. Watson, IBM's president, saw the use in correlating census material. Together, IBM and the Nazis sought to make a computerized statement of where "undesirable citizens" were congregated so they could round them up for deportation.  
> In the 1930s IBM's single largest market was the US. Its second was the Reich. There had to be some reason Hitler wanted thousands of new punched card systems for use during the war. In 2002 an author named Edwin Black was catapulted into non-fiction writing history for his very well documented book "IBM and the Holocaust." As Newsweek was calling his book "explosive," the New York Times said IBM bore "no unique responsibility" for evil, even after the author established it was true that IBM were the first to tattoo numbers on people so they could check the accuracy and speed of their system. In 2003, the American Society of Journalists and Authors acknowledged "IBM and the Holocaust" with its award for Best Non-Fiction Book of the Year.  
> The address where Irena worked was actually an IBM business, but the idea of sneaking someone out in a card sorting machine was fiction. That location produced punchcards mostly used to deal with railways. Before the argument is made that IBM just made a single thing and it's not IBM's fault how it was used, here is author Edwin Black's statement made to CNET in 2002: 
> 
> " IBM custom-designed the machines, custom-designed the applications and custom-printed the punch cards. There were no universal punch cards or machine wiring. Programs to identify Jews, Jewish bank accounts, barrels of oil, Luftwaffe flights, welfare payments, train schedules into camps, and even the concentration camp information--all these had to be tailored for each application."
> 
> For more information on how IBM exploited those forced into Polish ghettos or concentration camps, please read "IBM and the Holocaust" or Google "Watson and Hitler" along with information on Hollerith machines.  
> Thanks for reading.  
> ~Aireagoir


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie may hold the key to why Barnes knows George. That's not the same as using the key to open the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all of you who took the time to read and/or comment on the real historical information from chapter 11. It's a powerful thing to send words you care about into the night and have echoes return with the thoughts and feelings of friends you haven't met yet.
> 
> Please note the trigger warning for PTSD, also non-graphic non-consensual sexual content.

 

 

 

“I don’t. Exactly. Know how to tell Mr. Miles what I think happened.” Bucky looked worried. “Bucky, this is a giant thing. I know it will help you to tell the story, and I want to hear every single detail, no matter how long it takes. My reservations have nothing to do with talking to me. It’s about what’s best for George. Don’t you think it would be better if we have some kind of, I don’t know…logical timeframe? If you could tell him the story in order rather than an array of fragments? Do you see what I mean?”

Barnes was glad he could talk normally with Steve. He had held Steve’s insides together for two nights this week. The third night, Steve asked if he would like to try having his insides held together. For an uncomfortable moment, Barnes laid down. But. He would feel the closeness without seeing it. That was not acceptable. Even if it had been Before Steve, he would have felt pinned down, and After Steve had made a rule that there couldn’t be any knives in the bedroom. Steve said he might stub his toe and amputating a toe at 3:00 in the morning would be a bitch. Barnes suddenly got up. NO. NO. Lack of situational control. DENIED. He didn’t need the closet, but, no. Steve said things about “then of course we won’t” and something about boundaries. His voice was up but his eyes were down.

That night they had slept alone. The smell from the T-shirt was gone and sleeping alone was. Bigger. Space. No worries about saying or doing the wrong thing. Or how he smelled. Did he have a smell? Steve did, but he was Steve. Barnes could often know if a Steve fragment was real if he smelled like the real Steve. He had different smells. When he was in the hospital he always sweated and had taken medicine. That was one part of his smell, sometimes. He had another smell after being beat up, because blood was still fresh. Barnes’ memory suddenly lit up. A huge fragment had appeared. Intact and certainly real. He could recall sounds, smells, feelings, everything. Precisely when it was in the war was unclear, but they were going to stay several days. He knew that, he could remember a luxury, to have a tent up with canvas to make a proper four-walled barracks, eight bunk beds per barrack. After Azzano, twice Bucky discovered pieces of a GI-issue shirt that had been destroyed because After Steve still didn’t understand how strong he was. The second time, Barnes told him the material was worthless and somebody got Captain Rogers stronger new shirts. That night, he had waited until everyone had bunked down and then turned towards the canvas. In the darkness he smelled the shirt, disguised in a mess of shit on his bed he hadn’t cleared off. He held it for a minute to his face. It was instant transport back to Brooklyn. The Mets. Beans. “Punk!” The awful day Steve got the notice about his ma. Trying to push Steve onto a dance floor. Whirling with laughing girls. Coney Island. The smell of nightclubs. The time Steve had been jumped by two guys. One had a pocket knife held up to Stevie’s throat. The blind rage he felt as he punched the lookout then lifted his head and re-smashed it onto the concrete. The one with the knife, Bucky had laid him flat but was kicking him. Still kicking. Steve pulling at his collar, shaking his head and looking him in the eye. “Please, no, don’t. You’ll kill him. Buck, for me. Please, we gotta run home, the police’ll investigate. Please Buck, please, for me.” This was complicated. This was the moment James Buchanan Barnes knew he would kill anyone who tried to hurt Steve.

This moment, Barnes realized, was the biggest breakthrough he had experienced in a long time. He was remembering fragments inside of bigger memories. Barnes, in the present, was remembering something Bucky had done to keep Steve close to him when it wasn’t acceptable for a man to lovingly touch or kiss another man. Let alone two soldiers, and Steve was his commanding officer… and CAPTAIN FUCKING AMERICA. Barnes in the present laughed. Going through the scenario in his mind was really funny. The fragment kept building as he laughed. He remembered trepidation, then relief. What was it? One of the guys moved in his cot on the other side of the canvas barrack. Bucky knew he MUST get rid of the shirt. At dawn he threw it on the scrap heap in a box at the infirmary; the sleeves of the shirt were then used to apply a tourniquet one of the medics wanted to practice. No idea what happened to the back of the shirt, which was interesting because nothing ever went to waste in camp. “Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without!” Where had that come from? Huh. Sarah Rogers said that a lot.

On his next R&R, he flirted with an English nursing assistant at a club until she said, “Life is too short to follow stupid rules, Bucky.” The night he spent with her was a real fragment. He remembered her smell (cocktails, scent and hair styling products) and painted fingernails. His body felt great afterwards. He bragged quite a bit to the other guys about it. He added some details they asked for, more than a few that hadn’t happened. He told them she was “some broad.” He didn’t say that about women. But he did that time. Steve had wandered off, probably to sketch Agent Carter.

Later that night, Morita came up to him. It had been a calm few days, guys were bored, milling around, hanging out. They sat for a few minutes, Morita pulled something out of his pocket. It was a square. A square of GI-issue button-down material folded in four. Barnes didn’t even look at it, continued rolling a coin back and forth across his fingers while he contemplated if he had enough cigarettes he could treat himself to one now and another before bed. The coin was a trick he had seen a private do; it had looked pretty smooth and gave him something to look at while his mind wandered. Morita said, “Uniform shirts are going to shit. I advise keeping a patch; here’s yours.”

Son of a bitch. Was it a test? Was it a joke? Was it incrimination somehow? He never had any beef with Morita. Morita threw it at him. “Stick it in a pocket. No joke, the new material sucks.” Barnes stopped with the coin for a second. He looked right at Morita. He had the strangest fucking feeling he might pull his gun in a second; he was that scared. “Why you handing ’em out?” Morita shrugged. “Because I’m from fucking Fresno and there’s still a 50/50 I roll out of this hellhole in a body bag from friendly fire because my eyes are the wrong shape.” Barnes looked at him. Morita could see right through him. He knew. It was a deal. The different could help protect the different. “Roger that, Morita.” Barnes folded up the cloth. He stuck it in a jacket pocket. Patches could come in real handy.

From that moment on, he paid a little closer attention to how some of the cornplaster commandos talked about Morita. He found himself in one green recruit’s face screaming “If you have a problem with Private Morita you have a problem with me, Private Shit-for-Brains. Considering I’ve got shrapnel wounds older than your entire military career, do you like your odds, soldier? “No, sir.” “How many of the infant brigade here are from California?” “Three, sir.” As he said that, two guys looked up like “why the fuck you gotta drag my ass into this?” Barnes remembered screaming “I’m betting a month’s pay one Californian goes home on his own two feet, and Jim’s my pick. Good luck, baby brigade, I’ll remember to scrape you off my shoe when it comes time to pay up.”

Later that night, Morita stopped by with another tidbit: Steve, because he was Steve and the world just worked this way for Steve, would be heading a specialized unit. It was a good way to cover his six if that’s what he wanted. He looked slightly uncomfortable then rushed in with the more problematic information; Agent Carter would be there, too. He didn’t want Bucky walking into, well, a Dear John letter he could sit and write to himself. Barnes nodded the thanks. Morita did notice a sharp upswing in treatment from the “baby brigade.”

The youngest one, the loud one—Morita got the contact info to write a letter of condolence to his parents personally. The family was from Tulare, not much more than an hour down the highway from Fresno. Morita added he had been killed in a vital battle that was central to holding their position and it was a clean shot; their son would have felt no pain, didn’t even know before he hit the ground.

It was so far from the truth it needed a passport to get there.

********

Barnes couldn’t believe all of that was living in his brain, and it took a night not smelling Steve to remember it. After Steve showered daily and wore clean clothing. He did not understand why Tony, Nat and even mission assists like Lidia all had a smell but he didn’t react to it beyond noticing it was there. He wanted to ask Building, but ugh. Embarrassing. What if everyone can smell Steve and I’m stupid I don’t know that? Or conversely, nobody can and it’s brain damage? Tony would make more tests.

Sleeping wasn’t his worry now. When to tell Mr. Miles about his new fragments was critical. Barnes wanted to do the right thing, in the right way. This seemed impossible in the 21st century. He couldn’t be sure, but he believed it was impossible for many people, not just him. However, his current mission parameters could extend no farther than the weirdos in this particular building. All of the other weirdos would have to find their own mission assists.

********

Mr. Miles had come home to the Tower. Through Jarvis, he had sent a message building-wide that he had, most unfortunately, come down with influenza. To avoid getting anybody else sick, the tailoring suite would be run by Eduardo only. The reduced schedule for the suite was 9:00 am until 4:00 pm, or any time by appointment with Mr. Alvarez. In a separate note from Eddie, a few trusted confidantes learned George was under doctor’s orders for recuperation for 10-14 days. Everybody who got the note had already learned Mr. Miles had suffered more flashbacks while the Stark driver drove him back from the lodge. George would be seeing a doctor regularly. Steve’s VA friend Flying Sam had sent a very nice note saying he would arrange help or counseling if they needed him to. Although he had not been an American soldier, a UN Peacekeeping soldier with flashbacks to any combat situation, even those where he was a non-combatant, could fall under Sam’s purview. Barnes took a minute to reflect that Flying Sam really cared about a lot of people in a way you can only care when you are good with yourself and the nature of humans, both good and bad. Flying Sam was an extremely important mission assist for Steve, and therefore himself. People that took care of Steve were mission assist.

George had seen a limited number of people. One morning he got a tray with toast, three kinds of jam and a note saying “Get Well Soon, Georgie! Love, D.” He and Tony talked for a few minutes just to make sure George wanted for nothing. They agreed he must regain his strength before they talked at all about the file. Eddie knocked, but Jarvis turned him away, saying that Mr. Miles was asleep. He was not asleep. The TV was on.

Pepper had arranged for a private handi-van and driver for Esther, Lidia, Ollie and Ella. Ella was 74 and used a wheelchair. The driver would collect whomever was visiting that day, arrange everyone in the sitting room around George’s new state-of-the-art hospital recliner and then act as an assistant should Mr. Miles or his guests need anything. Some days, George talked a little with Esther. She would hold his hand until he fell asleep. Other days, the whole group would play cards and watch TV. Once a day, or twice if they felt especially slothful, they got Jarvis to play the Downton Abbey show on TV, and Lidia would make conversation about how beautiful the costumes were, and what a (pardon her language) “little shit” that naughty boy Barrow was. She said it precisely like that every single time: “Pardon my language, what a little shit that naughty boy Barrow is.” Ella and Esther had a friendly wager on how long it would take for her to say it. Esther loved the actress playing the mother, Cora; she had black hair in beautiful curls and was so very refined. Ella was smitten with the man playing the Irish chauffeur. Ollie declared he’d move to Ireland if that’s what Ella really wanted. Ella would tease that the body of a 25-year-old was what she really wanted, and Ollie would say, “What luck! I have three of them stored in one perfectly good Ollie!” Lidia, ever helpful, pointed out they had their own chauffeur if Ella wanted tips for dating one. The driver, who genuinely thought time with The Olds was the best part of his day, diplomatically announced alas, it could never be, as Daisy the kitchen maid would have his heart until his very last breath.

The clothing on the Abbey show gave George something to look at. Ollie would ask if this suit or that jacket was well made, in George’s opinion. George answered when he felt like he could. Once they brought along a cat and George petted the cat but didn’t talk at all. The friends always left when they felt they had “overstayed their welcome for today.” Once Esther cried in the van. George had shown Esther one part of the report. The other friends didn’t ask what she had seen. They just held her hand and Ollie said they were all tough old birds and it was going to take more than that for old George to stay down for the count. They were telling the driver a lot about how Mr. Stark must be the kindest employer in the country for insisting George receive this level of care. All of George’s friends were extremely kind. They went so far as to give him boxes of cookies and a nice tie George picked out himself. George had said he recognized the driver but he couldn’t remember how. Lidia had told George that’s OK, sometimes she looked in the mirror and wondered who the old lady with all the wrinkles was. George laughed.

Jess really enjoyed their company, made himself scarce when appropriate, and then reported back to Tony at 8:00 every evening. He was, among other things, trained as an evasive tactical driver and a paramedic. Not his business why Mr. Stark wanted it this way, but Jess received the $600 per diem as a bodyguard in addition to ordinary duties. Whatever. If Mr. Stark thought someone needed to stand between George Miles’ friends and a covert operative, Jess would be in front of the bullet, no questions asked.

********

“I have an idea. I think it would work.” Barnes waited to see how concerned he could make After Steve look, until shades of Before Steve started to creep in. That was the limit. For now, anyway. Captain America outranked Sergeant Barnes, but Bucky outranked After Steve. Nobody outranked Before Steve. When he looked like Before Steve, Bucky would turn the universe inside out and upside down to stop him from looking that fragile again.

“Mission Assist Building, would you please ask Eddie Alvarez if he has time to come up for cookies and a quick chat? Please only ask if he’s alone. If Magdalena is with him I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but she can’t come.” Barnes looked quickly at Steve, who smiled and chucked him on the metal arm. Damn. That reminded him he had agreed to maintenance. Yeah, he would. He knew it would be more than the quick tune up Stark had performed a few months ago. There were scans, and talk of lighter construction. Barnes had other ideas about that. But for now, Mr. Miles was his highest priority. His brain took a moment to reorganize itself. Mr. Miles was the highest priority he could select.

The one unbreakable Mission Priority was standing at his fridge, wearing pajama bottoms and a red T-shirt that had a yellow flash of lightning on it. It was a costume for a fictional superhuman on TV and it seemed to make a lot of people laugh when Steve wore it. Once he wore it to a newsstand and the man running the stand was wearing a shirt about an arrow. Barnes didn’t understand, but the picture of Steve and the newsstand man was all over the Internet, with a caption saying “You have failed this city!” Everybody loved Steve and thought he was very funny and cool. The newsstand man had told him he could have anything he wanted, free forever, because now everybody wanted to go to the newsstand Captain America liked. Steve smiled and said no thank you, because, you know, Steve. The man insisted again. So, Steve got a Hershey bar once. He brought it back and told Barnes he should have half because that’s how it always was. Stevie (he sometimes remembered him as Stevie. Did After Steve know that?) and the Bucky-person always shared chocolate. When he said that, Barnes had a flash of something about a chocolate bar. The fragment was too fast. Maybe it would come back later.

Mission Priority was bending to get milk and a bottle of Coke out of the fridge. It made Steve very happy to keep things in their kitchen that guests enjoyed drinking. He had tea for Mr. Miles (and Esther, if she would ever spend the evening as Mr. Miles’ ladyfriend. Everybody knew but nobody said anything because SEE HOW IMPOSSIBLE THE 21ST CENTURY IS EVEN). There was the yellow box to make Rabbit coffee, vodka that several of the Avengers liked, and fizzy water for Pepper and Maria. Maria also liked coffee, and Barnes noticed Dr. Banner now drank coffee. They talked a lot about it. Maria was very enthusiastic about coffee and knew many different kinds and ways to make it. Barnes didn’t mention to anyone Dr. Banner had ordered a book on the history of coffee and a PA mistakenly delivered it to Barnes, not Banner. After explaining the PA needed to go to Bruce at his lab he had an idea to be mission assist for Dr. Banner. Green thing Hulk protected Steve and he wanted Dr. Banner to have a good life. It seemed talking with Maria was mission compatible for Banner’s happiness. But it would have to wait.

Mr. Jarvis came on. “Gentlemen, Mr. Alvarez will be up in ten minutes. He asks if he should bring anything.” Barnes said “Yes, please. Ask him to bring a photo of Mr. Miles from when he was younger, if he has one, one that is not on your computer database.” Barnes got snickerdoodle cookies and put them out. Eddie knocked a few minutes later. He was wearing sweatpants and a shirt that said “U2” on it. Barnes echoed, “U2? Is that, was he…U2?” Barnes stood there with his eyebrows so furrowed they were touching, gaze shifting between Eddie and Steve.

Jarvis rarely inserted himself into conversations when not invited, but his immediate grasp of Barnes’ confusion made it clear there would be a problem if he did not. “Ah! Good evening, Mr. Alvarez. Mr. Barnes, you may remembering the U-2 airplane that was shot down in Soviet airspace on May 1st, 1960, piloted by American Francis Gary Powers. Eddie, am I correct in assuming that your T-shirt does not refer to that historical event, but rather promotes the Irish rock band U2, as fronted by the popular singer Bono? I only mention it because Ms. Potts is devoted to them as well.” Barnes’ eyebrows separated themselves. Jarvis, as usual, had saved many awkward questions.

“Got it in one, Jarvis! Oooh—you guys missed out on U2. Can I suggest a few songs? You don’t need to write them down, I’ll ask Jarvis to make you a short playlist that represents their best work.” Steve did a 180 from the kitchen. “Irish? People from Ireland got famous for rock music?” “They did, my man, one of the biggest groups in the world. Cap, I know you’ve heard their song ‘Beautiful Day.’ It’s like, your personal motto with background singers. Anyway, Miss Belle, one of my foster moms, loved U2 like a madwoman. She had everything they ever performed. Don’t get me wrong, I listen to recent stuff. But I grew up on U2. Oooh—Coke for me? Thanks Cap! What’s up? I didn’t screw up burger night, did I?” Eddie sat on the couch with his soda and threw the envelope he had brought onto the coffee table.

Steve smiled. “Like we wouldn’t just go to the suite then carry you out of the building for burger night. That’s cute. Actually, Eddie, this is a little complicated. We wanted to talk to you before we talked to Mr. Miles, because you’re closer to him than anyone else. We’d never ask you to betray a confidence. It’s just that, huh. This is hard to explain. I figured, I’ll let Buck- Barnes can tell you everything he has to say, and I’ll only jump in to clarify if needed. Deal?”

“Roger that.” Eddie had taken up this annoying soldier expression since they became friends. However, three times they had spent an hour in the coffee bar sketching together. It was the first time in literally this century that Steve had shared a simple hobby with a friend. Oh, and he did mean literally. People who said that when speaking figuratively made him want to punch something. He and Eddie shared a hobby. Not training, not posing, not campaigning, not grieving, not fighting, not running for health, not looking for Bucky, not having Sam analyze him. A hobby, and Eddie was very good. Eddie sketched a lot of different things such as the details on the coffee bar counter or a woman sitting in a dress talking on her cell. Sharing sketching bought Eddie unlimited usage of annoying catch phrases.

Eddie also used coasters when he drank Coca Cola at the coffee table. Then Barnes would whine about what a suck-up Eddie was, and Steve would respond that he _enjoyed_ having friends who have _manners_ and Eddie would do something incredibly obnoxious like using the reflection from Barnes’ arm to check his hair, which would earn him a “you little shit!” and so on and so forth. You know. Being friends.

“Um.” Barnes hadn’t thought how to tell Eddie, let alone Mr. Miles. It was probably a good thing to practice before Mr. Miles heard it. Then he remembered the photo. “Eddie, were you able to bring any pictures of Mr. Miles? Jarvis and I already looked but couldn’t find much.” “Yeah. I have two, uh, here.” He handed over the envelope. “That black and white one is from his UN days.” Steve glanced at it. “Yes, he showed me that one.” Eddie removed the second. “Here he is at his father’s funeral, I mean, his adoptive father, so that one has to be, like, 1985?” Barnes picked it up. He stared at it for quite a while. He closed his eyes, and then walked around a bit, then said “OK. I know what we, what I need to do.” He looked at the picture again. He continued, “Eddie, you know that you and Mr. Miles are here because you’re very good tailors but also there’s some link between his past and Stark Industries. And you know that I have. Memories. From after. Being captured. That aren’t complete. There are two things I figured would help me remember. Looking at this picture helped a lot. The other thing that might help is if I could look in the tailoring suite with you. I need to be sure I’m doing the right thing.”

Eddie looked between Cap and Barnes. “Doing what right thing?” Barnes looked at Steve and back to Eddie. “Eddie, I think I know what happened to Mr. Miles’ Polish father. How do we approach telling Mr. Miles?” Eddie sucked in air through his nose and then looked between Steve and Barnes. “How much do you know and how much are you guessing?”

Steve looked at Bucky. He couldn’t answer. It had to be Barnes that said it, and it had to be for whatever he thought were the right reasons. Once they climbed to the top of the hill, there would be no stopping the roller coaster that was Tony Stark. Barnes said “I’d know if the fragments were real if Stark could look around in my arm. It would prove that my fragments, memories, really happened.”

Eddie sat for a second then said “I think that’s how you tell him. Mr. Miles knows what an enormous thing it would be for Tony to work on your arm. If he could hear it firsthand, no matter what was discovered, I think he’d respect you went through that to tell him the truth. He’s never known anything about the adoption. Nothing. “Whatever was in that file shook him so much he can hardly see straight. He hasn’t even spoken to me this whole time except a message through Jarvis to make sure I remembered to inventory some new thread. I don’t know what he’s said to Esther and all those folks, well, your friends, Barnes. He won’t say a thing to me. I have no idea why. But, whatever, it’s his past. He can tell whoever he wants.”

Steve winced a little at how hard Eddie tried to look like he didn’t care that he had not been invited in to sit with George. He saw no reason to let Eddie sit there in misery. “Eddie, trust me. Whatever he has or hasn’t told them has nothing to do with how he feels about you. Even if he told everyone else on the planet there’s still a valid reason he won’t tell you. Maybe for a long time.” Eddie came the closest he could to snorting in derision without actually doing it.

“No offense Cap, but you haven’t known him very long.” Steve said “I can prove it. Jarvis, I know you don’t normally do this for private conversations, but would you please play the segment of the conversation Mr. Miles and I had the day he showed me the picture of this little girl?” Jarvis responded “You’re correct that I rarely consent to do this, but I agree it serves a compassionate purpose here.” In a few seconds Eddie could hear Mr. Miles and Cap laughing, and it was obviously in the private fitting room because sound bounces a little when you stand in front of three-way mirrors. Then Cap “…“Do you think it’s possible to find that more than once, Mr. Miles?” There was a pause. “I believe life would be unbearable if we could not, Mr. Rogers. Even if that love doesn’t look like we thought it would. Here I am, older than Moses’ socks, unmarried and living in the Avengers Tower, with a Mexican-American son I found by placing an ad for a tailor in the New York Times. Two years ago I slipped in my shop…” Eddie looked up.

“He remembered that? I lied in the ambulance?” “Yes, he did. Then he told me that it doesn’t matter how you make a family, once you do it you’d better do whatever it takes to stay there. He hasn’t spoken to you yet because there are some things a man can’t tell his son until he’s ready. I didn’t know my dad, so let me be the first to urge you to not let your pain push yours away.”

Eddie sat there for a minute, fiddling with the label on the bottle of Coke and trying to figure out what to say. Barnes was glad Steve was focusing on Eddie because it meant he wasn’t observing Barnes. Steve had seen the picture of Mr. Miles with the Korean girl and her young, pretty mother. It wasn’t much of a stretch to assume they were talking about loves they had lost all those years ago. Steve was asking if it was possible to find love again. Mr. Miles clearly believed you could find love again. He had made a family with Eduardo and was stepping out with Esther. Why was Steve asking? There were only two likely scenarios: he was concerned he would never find it again…or concerned because he already had. If he had, did he…? STOP. Train of thought unproductive to current situation parameters.

He spoke up, saying, “Eddie, can we look through the suite for a little bit? It might help.” Eddie nodded and they all went to the elevator. On the ride down, Barnes mentioned that as mechanical lives go, being an elevator much be very boring compared to, say, being his arm, or Tony’s suit. Nobody could think of a follow-up to that so they continued to the suite in silence. Eddie was carrying the pictures in an envelope which he put on his desk in his fitting suite.

He asked “Are you looking for something you can describe?” Barnes thought about it, then said “yes, maybe. Can you show me sharp things?” Eddie decided this was a totally normal request and, anyway, if you don’t feel safe hanging out with Captain America right next to you then you’re probably the kind of person who wears a belt and suspenders at the same time. Eddie started gathering things. “Uh, we have needles, of course. There are several types, but these are your basic ones for clothing. And pins, um, there’s a needle in the sewing machine, obviously.”

“Let me refine parameters. Sharp things I could get a handle on. Things at least this long.” He put his fingers three inches apart. Eddie took a second to reorganize. “There’s several types of scissors for cutting fabric. Those all hang here… there might be other tools in women’s dressmaking, but I’d be surprised if dressmaking used that many tools I’d never heard of. Maybe, uh, this drawer we have some upholstery needles just in case because heav--” “There. That. What is that?” Barnes picked it up and held it in his hand like a knife. Eddie looked and said, “Oh, that’s a seam ripper. Like this, see. If I wanted to split up a row of stitches along one side, I slide this underneath the threads and cut them away. That’s standard sewing equipment.”

“Show me, please.” Eduardo and Cap took a split second to check in with each other through eye contact. Cap nodded. They were aware Bucky’s voice had an edge to it. He had become slightly depersonalized. This was business, and that made both of them just a shade more vigilant. Eddie went and got a mockup of one of Jess’ shirts that hadn’t gone well. He turned it inside out and used the seam ripper, then handed it back. Barnes turned it over again. “Would a normal sewing shop have these, around our original time?” Eddie shrugged and said “I can’t see why not. I’m pretty sure a lot basic sewing tools are Victorian era or older. Have you ever heard of somebody being nitpicky? That comes from a tool that’s much like this one, where you can pull a loose yarn back through a sweater. It’s called a knit pick.”

Cap stood in the fabrics room, watching Bucky. His attention was split. Most of it was looking for any sign Bucky had seen something that triggered a memory. If that happened, he may need to help control him for his own safety as well as Eduardo’s. The other thing his brain was screaming over and over again was _Jarvis, did you have to rewind the goddamn conversation quite that far? How about you just broadcast over the building-wide public announcement system that I’m in love with someone that might be a little **different** from Peggy?!? Good God, Jarvis, did you think my life wasn’t complicated enough right now?_ Barnes asked Eddie if he could borrow the seam ripper for the time being. He’d be happy to buy a new one if he broke it. Eddie told him to help himself because they had a ton of them.

They left the suite, thanked Eddie, and walked away. Eddie could tell something was happening and he didn’t want to stick around for whatever it was. He gave them a friendly wave and headed for reruns of Park and Rec instead. They got on the elevator. Bucky looked at Steve for a minute and then said “It’s the right tool. I don’t know why, though. Could we, I need to sleep alone tonight. The picture and the seam ripper aren’t, they aren’t, I saw them and it’s not safe right now. I don’t mean I’d hurt you, I mean, well, it’s fucking with my brain. I’m not, yeah. I’m not all here tonight, Steve. I apologize.”

He was going to face his room but then added “can we hug?”

“Always. You know that. Always.” He let Bucky come closer first and then held him tightly for a few seconds. Barnes could not get used to being the shorter one. The Bucky-person always went to hug Before Steve. “Steve, I had a fragment about us. It was a man with a pocket knife and his partner.”

“Yeah. That was different than the normal stuff.” Steve carefully modulated his voice. “I think they were going to hurt me, Barnes.” “Affirmative. I remembered today that was when I decided that Bucky, just me, not the Asset…” Steve stroked his hair a tiny bit and let him take his time. “You decided…? “That I would rather kill someone that see you be hurt.” Steve pulled him away just enough to make eye contact. “Please promise me you’re OK right now, Buck. Fragments, the pictures, seam ripper, are you sure we should sleep apart tonight?” He got a nod. Steve carefully smoothed back a lock of Barnes’ hair whose only known job was to sink forward right back to the way it always was. He stroked it back again as he said “No killing. No beating up. I’m safe, I promise. But I still need you here, I need to know you’re all right.” He smiled, “remembering we’re grading on a curve here.”

Steve walked away, headed for a late shower then bed. He slept in pants with yellow faced ovoids that wore overalls and funny glasses. Barnes held the seam ripper and watched him on the monitor for four hours. The fragment of the men who wanted to hurt Steve that way, when he was young and so fragile...he decided to do 100 push ups then think about it again after he had released some adrenaline that came with the confirmation his fragment was verified. The fragment was even more complicated than sorting out a single event or feeling. It was, then and now...he needed a word. He asked Jarvis for a word he tried to describe. Excruciating. Yes. He knew that word. It was excruciating. He wanted to kill the man who would hurt Stevie so horribly, not only his body but his spirit. Barnes knew what that was, to have your heart and faith taken from you as people hurt you in that way. However, in Brooklyn he hadn't known that yet. It was years from being burned into his soul.

The excruciating thing was that he been told every day of his life that was the most disgusting thing a man could do, or be. A real man wouldn't think about that. A real man wanted what Bucky already had; flocks of pretty girls swishing their skirts and pulling him onto the dance floor. It didn't change that he had almost murdered a man because the thing that piece of shit was going to rip from Stevie's soul was what Bucky had fantasies about doing _with_  Stevie, _for_  Stevie. Him wanting this, too. Hearing him say "Yes, I want you. Yes, I love you. Touch me, please Buck, touch me." He would have been so gentle. Careful. He would risk going to hell forever for the chance to caress him and protect him; the valiant hero in the body of fragile planes and angles.

Steve stayed in the shower long enough to quit crying. He remembered how terrified he felt when he'd felt the knife against his throat and the brutal erection pressing against him. Of course Bucky had saved him. He always saved him. Nobody came when Bucky needed saving. Nobody ca...

Steve vomited in the shower.

When they awoke the next morning, without even asking Bucky came to Steve in the middle of the kitchen and threw his arms around him, holding him tight. Steve whispered "I'm here, Bucky. I'm here. I'm never leaving you again." They ended up on the floor, Bucky curled up against him, how Steve used to shrink into him was he was cold and very sick. He felt the strong fingers in his hair and the mantra, over and over. "I'm never leaving you again. I'm never leaving you again."


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing's wrong that kung pao chicken and life-altering, excruciating surgery can't fix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Broken record, I know, but your kudos and comments water a plant I was pretty sure had died. Gratitude.

 

Twelve days had passed, so Mr. Miles spoke with his doctor, and she agreed that it might be good for George to go someplace where he felt comfortable and safe. They struck a deal: George may go to the tailoring suite for two hours per day, but Eduardo must be there the entire time and if he felt any weakness or signs of another flashback he would return home immediately. The doctor then pulled Eddie aside and told him to call her on her private cell if anything unusual occurred.

The next morning, Eduardo opened for business as usual. Around 10:15 he got a text.

DaNeesha: _when Mr M, then wanna chat after? Good Jane/Thor gossip._

Eddie wrote back _11:00-1, bring Chinese food?_

At 11:00 Eddie took a breath so deep he thought he sucked up his shoes into his feet. Mr. Miles came in slowly but he looked well. Jess nodded at Eddie and said “what’s up?” as he made sure George got in all right. Eddie nodded and said “no problems here. Those shirts working out?”

“Yeah. I was gonna ask if we could do one in blue.” He looked incredibly sheepish then said “match my eyes, maybe?”

Eddie grinned. “That’s a man on the hunt. Lady or gentleman?” Jess slammed his hand against the front counter a little and said “what’s it to you?” Eddie shot back with “because there’s a definite psychology on what type of shirt you wear. Lady? We go with a slight V-neck and showcase the broad shoulders. Gentleman, we make sure he can’t ignore a hot six-pack.”

They both grinned then suddenly realized they had left Mr. Miles standing in the middle of this VERY casual and personal conversation. Jess looked mortified and Eddie pretty much wished the floor would swallow him whole right now. It was an SI building. He’d be shocked if it _didn’t_ have a floor that could swallow people.

Mr. Miles shook his head and walked into the fabric room laughing. “Every younger generation thinks they invented sex. How do you think you got here?!” He laughed a little more and then finished with “But he’s not wrong Jess. Except that if it’s another gentleman you seek, I think the stomach is too much, too New Jersey. I’d go short sleeved if you’re proud of your biceps.” They listened to him shuffle on back to his sitting room. _Well_ , thought Eddie _, it’s been awhile since I couldn’t even. But, what can I say? I Can. Not. Even._

He walked back to Mr. Miles’ room and rapped a knuckle of the door frame. He stood in the open doorway and said “I’ll have Jarvis bring up the current orders. I think business is very slow because people are layering right now but it’s too soon for Christmas presents. When it gets colder we should see an increase in woolen wear. Oh-- and the tweeds came in! Do you want a full progress report on your own order? ”

Eddie knew that George wanted to make nice gifts for the new friends that meant so much to him now. From what he could gather, this December was to be one big Christmas/Hanukkah/New Year extravaganza so the older folks could celebrate their new apartments, friends and companions. George had his bank account transfer a generous sum to cover materials and labor. Eddie continued

“The 100% Irish Bainín Wool is magnificent. In fact, all of the Irish weaves are gorgeous this year. I marked a herringbone tweed for you at 77. If we had time, I thought it might be nice to do a structured outdoor jacket for Ollie. I know he gets cold and Christmas will be coming up soon.  We haven’t known Ella long, so I went with the foolproof all-silk wraparound scarf. I let Ollie pick the color, he picked a purple that should do well with her coloring. I left Esther entirely up to you, of course. For Lidia I did the half-length cloak in this.” He pulled out a striking woolen cape with an elegantly draped hood in back. It was a heathered slate gray with an off-white satin lining. Every year Lidia made a point of attending one opening night at the Met and another opening night at a Broadway show. She would look divine.

Mr. Miles nodded then added “let me see that cloak.” He asked Eddie to drape it carefully over his shoulders so Miles could see the folds in the hood. He said “I assume you’ve heard that Mr. Barnes wants an authentic uniform made to surprise Mr. Rogers at the Halloween party? I was thinking that I might do that myself as my fun project. Less stress and all that. Does that mesh with your schedule?”

Eddie nodded. “Absolutely. Natasha wants help adjusting a ballet costume and Dr. Banner wanted a quick consult; he’s in at 4:00 today.”

The TV screen showed what needed to be done and deadlines. Eddie started to work on a shirt that needed to be taken in a bit. It would be short work, and clearing off the small projects always made the work orders seem more manageable. The shirt took him an hour total to alter, package and send away. Mr. Miles had ordered the material required for Barnes’ uniform the day Barnes had come in to tell him about the surprise costume. Everyone would be in costume, but he would be in full uniform, looking precisely as he had when he and Captain Rogers had been together in their own time. Mr. Miles would get every single stitch perfect if it was the last bloody thing he ever accomplished. He had spent too much time thinking about all of the pain he left behind when he was one of the lucky few to be ferried to England. So many millions died and yet here he was.

Against all odds, two men that had been presumed dead would be there, the war still fresh in their minds and souls. He had a feeling Sgt. Barnes knew what he was about when he planned the party. Sgt. Barnes may be able to say a few things Barnes, as he was now, could not. At least Mr. Miles hoped so. He remembered more than a few unkind things said about a Western soldier who might develop feelings for a young Asian woman. People who judged love between two consenting adults should take a long walk off a short pier, dammit.

1:00 came in no time at all. He heard Jess stick his head in to bring him back to his apartment, doctor’s orders. He left his pieces on his board so he could pick them back up tomorrow. He knocked on Eduardo’s suite door and told him goodbye. Eduardo opened the door and “see you same time tomorrow?” Mr. Miles nodded. Before he walked away he looked at his assistant and said “Eduardo, Lidia’s cape is magnificent. You’re a true talent and I mean that.” He took a sip of bottled water. “When the time is right, we’ll talk. Sleeping and diversions have let me rest. Oh, and if you haven’t seen that Downton Abbey show, the detailing is all hand-stitched. You can tell. But, er, when the time is right, we’ll have a proper sit and talk about all this. I hope you know that.”

Eddie nodded and said “Oh sure, I figured when you were ready, I wasn’t worried. There’s no rush. In your own time, and all that.”

Mr. Miles smiled and turned to leave. He wondered whom he had to thank for explaining it to young Eduardo. He decided credit probably went to Mr. Rogers. As he was walking out the door he saw DaNeesha coming down the hall, muttering or humming a little something to herself. He gave her a little wave and thanked her for the toast and well wishes. “Glad to see you up and around!” she said, carrying in a box of Chinese takeout food. He walked back to his apartment, surprised by how tired he felt. Jess left him dozing in his recliner for the afternoon.

Meanwhile, Eddie was getting all of the latest gossip Darcy was feeding DaNeesha via text messages. Eddie had fried rice halfway to his mouth and laughing while DaNeesha is howling with laughter and saying “I swear it! She is going dressed as a German barmaid!! On my grandmama’s life, I swear, Thor told Jane he only spent that much time with Miss Naughty Nurse because he found her daughter so interesting. He said it was amazing to meet a person from Earth whose primary function is to laugh, hug people, and always think the best of the here and now. Thor said he understands why they are labeled ‘special needs’ because of course Earth must do everything it can to protect and coddle such perfectly innocent children who seek only to love. It’s so sweet. It is, it totally is. You know, I have a cousin with a Downsie kid. Every time I see her she acts like I must have moved a mountain to come visit her. Like it’s the biggest honor ever DaNeesha walked through the door. Damn. I need more of that in my life. I should get my ass over to Queens sometime soon.” She popped a crab Rangoon in her mouth.

“Jane says he asked if it would be possible to have babies on Asgard with Downs Syndrome because ‘that kind of selfless wonder must be among the most unique talents the universe has to offer’ and now they’re back on again. I mean actually back on. She’s wearing a matching German waitress costume for him for this Halloween thing. How that means they’re serious again, I don’t even know. 100% real right now, I do NOT even know.” DaNeesha was laughing, eating kung pao chicken and drinking a giant Mountain Dew.

Eddie felt better than he had in over two weeks. The suite was fully open, Mr. Miles was walking around, he was getting ridiculous gossip from DaNeesha and Cap was right about men needing time to talk about some things. He and DaNeesha finished by reading their fortune cookies. DaNeesha scowled “all mine says is ‘be true.’ What kinda lazy-ass fortune cookie is that?” Eddie replied “Mine says ‘a year from now you’ll wish you had started today.’ That’s pretty good, if you think about it.” They stuffed pieces of Styrofoam-like cookie into their mouths and she got back to work.

Eddie washed his hands and worked on the skirt for Natasha. He wondered if he could get away with calling her in for a fitting…heh. No harm in trying, right?

Dr. Banner came in at 4:00 and asked Eddie if they could make one pair of trousers and two more shirts that were sized the way his first order was, but in different colors. The trousers were easy; he had nothing between a khaki and black, so brown would be very versatile as well as functional.  They spent 20 minutes looking at some different fabrics with a bit more heft for fall, and talked a bit about what he wanted to do in the shirts, where he saw himself going in them. They narrowed the choices down to two gorgeous blends, one with flecks of different colors to add some visual interest without being as pronounced as a pattern. They worked a little on collar variations so that one was more of a relaxed, weekend feel, maybe roll up the sleeves or wear with a structured coat walking with a special someone in Central Park. Eddie made certain to keep that detail vague. Dr. Banner was probably better off not knowing there was a building-wide betting pool on when he and Maria Hill would finally just go to bed together. Of course, the ones who were brave enough also had that pool on Barnes and Rogers but…would you want to be the one held responsible if the two strongest soldiers on the planet found out you were betting on their sex life? Yeah. Safer to steer well clear of that one. Eddie valued his life.

********

Steve was in the gym all day. He was Doing Something. Anything. He wanted to keep moving and didn’t care how he did it. Barnes was running outside. The building was too small. They had been in each other’s pockets too much lately, but neither one could figure out why it felt that way. Barnes was excited for the Halloween party, but if he said anything that screwed it all up. Steve mostly whined he did NOT want a costume because costumes were for working. Then Barton wanted to talk training exercises with Steve and that was the rest of his afternoon gone while Barnes was at the tailoring shop, talking with Mr. Miles and joking a few minutes with Eddie. Barnes, Mr. Miles and Tony agreed that after the Halloween party it would be time to get down to brass tacks. November 2nd was set as the day.

Mr. Miles would like to know anything he could about his birth family. Barnes was ready to face the dreadful mental and physical pain the adjustments and exploratory surgery would bring. He understood that they would be working with things that were known to be linked to his memory, but also that he had many implants throughout his body they hadn’t studied yet. Touching something that seemed benign in his elbow could cause him to remember killing a child. That was the very worst thing about the Winter Soldier: he had done as commanded. Barnes didn’t want to be to blamed for those things, yet there was no doubt his hands had pulled the trigger or stretched the rope. Tony swore with JARVIS as his witness he would do his best to control his mad-scientist alter ego. Nobody believed him, but it was a gesture.

Dinner time was a mess. Steve thought they were making pasta, Barnes thought they were getting Cuban sandwiches. They ended up with the sandwiches. They weren’t mad at each other. As far as either of them knew, they weren’t anything at each other. Something was in the air between them. They were both wondering where things might go from here. Because he was the kind of man that could be invisible for long periods of time without appearing to try Barnes knew about the betting pool. Steve knew about it because Barton had $100.00 on “after Christmas but before Dec. 27th.” Nat didn’t place a bet but did mention she thought it had happened back in the ’40s. Tony had $1,000.00 riding on “never.” Ugh. Every person they knew was an asshole.

They went back into the apartment. There was a strange silence. Steve didn’t want to force Bucky to talk. Bucky didn’t want to feel like they were going to be sad just because he couldn’t talk and remember at the same time. He realized Steve didn’t care how he was included, as long as he was. That could be helpful tonight.

“Steve? I want to do something. Um, two things. One is memory stuff. The second one is, other stuff.”

“Yeah, sure. As long as neither thing ends up on the internet.”

“I give you my personal guarantee that if I was going to humiliate you for the entire internet to see my own hair would look nicer. Can we get a Hershey bar?”

“A Hershey bar? Sure. I think we have one in the cabinet.” They did. Steve brought it over. He gave it to Bucky. Bucky took off the wrapper but left the foil on. He smelled it, and he was right. He remembered.

“Steve, there was a day at the hospital when you were very sick. The nurse said she’d throw me out on my ear if I gave you food that wasn’t on your hospital diet. Do you remember?”

Rogers shook his head. “Sorry Buck, I don’t.” Barnes smiled and said “you will. I had to sit on it for an hour until she left and then it was completely melted, so there was no way to split it and we had to lick it off the wrapper.”

“Holy cow! I do remember that! And you said it wasn’t your fault your tongue was bigger so you kept getting more than your half!” Steve was laughing. “It was gooey and had been touching your butt and, oh holy cow. Yep. You’ve got it right. That happened.”

Barnes opened it. He split it in two and said “if you want it melted you have to use your own butt.” They were both sitting on the couch. There were other chocolates they liked too, but this one was the right one for remembering. It was the right one to be Steve and Bucky. For a second, in a flash Barnes couldn’t quite get, he felt it was the right one to be _Stevie and Bucky_. They turned on a cooking show and learned all about the science of why cakes and cookies rise in the oven. Bucky was fascinated. He asked Jarvis to put different baking powders and sodas and yeasts on the shopping list. Having enough money and the ability to bake anything he pleased made Barnes very happy. He couldn’t remember why today was a stupid day. Steve was happy Bucky was happy. He didn’t know why stupid days happened either.

At 11:00 Bucky turned and looked at him. “I said I had another idea. It might be progress. Or stupid. It, it only works in my room. If you want to try.” Steve looked a little dubious but said “sure. Let’s do it. What do I do?”

“Get ready for bed.” So they both did. This time Bucky was wearing pajama bottoms with toast on them. Steve waited at Bucky’s door until Bucky said “given our combined strengths this should be easy.” Steve came in and waited.

“My room doesn’t have a window. Single point of entry. Which we block.”

Ah. Steve got it. He picked up the top of Bucky’s bed and helped him maneuver it so that the bed blocked the door. It was a very awkward fit but now it made sense. There was no way anybody could enter or exit, and this was his space. He controlled it. Steve said “If it’s still not OK, we stop. No questions asked.”

Bucky nodded. He took a deep breath and they climbed into the bed from one side because everything was now squished together weirdly in the room. They were both laughing at the strange configuration, but also because this was different. It was close in a different way. Physically intimate because, why? Because Bucky had asked for this. He wanted this. Steve laid down on his side. “Buck, you could lay down facing me. We could talk face to face for a bit.”

Bucky nodded. He laid down. He could smell Steve and mouthwash and something else. Mostly Steve. He wanted to say something but it didn’t come out right. It came out as “You should know there are four knives hidden in the frame of the bed and two in the dresser.”

Steve laughed. He laughed very loudly. _My room, my rules, Captain Jawline._ “Why is that funny?”

“Because it’s the most perfectly Barnes thing that could possibly be said in the short but amazing history of Barnes’ quotations.” _Because when you say things like that I remember how parachuting into the center of hell on earth seemed like a very small price to have you back._

“Oh. I’ll try not to cut you up with the arm. Uh, this is hard to do.”

Steve sat up on his right arm. “Listen. I can talk you through it. You know we’re alone and we’ve blocked the only point of entry. That’s good, right?” Bucky nodded. “Roll over onto your right. It’s OK. You can see the whole room, and you can hear me talking. If it’s OK, I’m going to lay right behind you. All right?” Bucky nodded. He felt Steve move in behind him, being very careful and slow, then he could hear Steve’s voice close to his ear. “Can I put my arm around you?” Barnes nodded again. “Bucky, I want you to actually say it. Tell me you’re OK if I put my arm around you.”

“Steve, yes. I want your arm around me.” There was a moment filled with very significant unsaid wants. So he continued “and a pony for Christmas.”

Bucky had the obnoxious, loud, slightly moist sensation of Steve Rogers snorting as he cackled directly into his left ear. He was laughing, too. They were both laughing so hard they didn’t exactly notice when Steve really did put his arm around him. He was holding him, tightly, with his face buried in the hollow below his ear. Bucky quickly looked at the inside of his left arm. He was pretty sure he could avoid nicking Steve’s arm with the few metal pieces that hadn’t been maintained properly. He moved his arm around Steve’s, curling his fingers gently. A fragment came floating into his dreams as he nodded off to sleep. He recalled lying next to Stevie in Brooklyn, a few nights after his ma had died. _Stevie_. That was it. Stevie was the name he said in his head. The name he was too embarrassed to let anybody hear. It was his name, his alone for the small fragile body with a wicked sense of humor and unreal capacity to find trouble _. His Stevie._

During those few weeks of grief no rules from the outside world applied. It was acceptable to do or say anything that would make him hurt less. That included holding him in bed when he slept odd hours, unable to cope with the pain he felt inside. Bucky would stare, fascinated, at his fingers. Fingers that could hold a pencil and capture any moment in time. Fingers that turned white when he was in so much pain he would grip metal bed rails and hack until he choked on his own phlegm and vomit. Now the same fingers were so strong and capable. He had used them to pull the trigger of a gun. To hold human bodies together until doctors could save them. Used them to flip impossible cards onto the table because he was the world’s biggest, strongest, dirtiest fucking card sharp.

The entire United States had gotten 70 years to grow in their tolerance and respect that two men could love each other as deeply and profoundly as a traditional couple could. Even with marriage equality, it wasn’t hard to find people who still felt a man loving another man was wrong, a sin, disgusting. He was already a Soviet assassin, so maybe being gay wouldn’t be that much worse? Barnes and Steve didn’t get adjustment time. In their world, the timeline they shared, this was criminal and shameful. A disgusting perversion that no decent man would ever admit to. It was so hard to imagine doing what he did that one night, in secret, and feel no shame.

Steve was breathing softly, curled up around him with enough slack he was probably asleep. Barnes tried. Softly and carefully he kissed the pads of Steve’s fingers. He waited to hear mission, or a feeling, even himself from the past saying something to the man he was today. Nope. Nothing. No shame. No recriminations from family that were long gone but still lived and breathed in a few of his most precious fragments. No fear because he was safe. He _could_ get out at any moment. He felt Steve’s arm around him and the back of his own legs pressed against Steve’s. That was that. He didn’t want to. He fell asleep after he brushed one finger again with his lips. He didn’t realize he whispered something in his almost-sleep. It didn’t matter.

Steve wouldn’t know the word возлюбленный anyway. He rolled the word around his tongue. He’d never had a need to say it before. Возлюбленный. _Beloved_.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes is reporting for duty. He's ready to face the truth...about everything.

 

The day of the Halloween party was finally here. Barnes thought he was going to throw something through a window if he had to wait one second longer to see what would happen. He wasn’t alone. About half of SI had something planned for the other half, and everybody was anxious to see it came off perfectly. Bucky made way too many cookies for any reasonable person to find an excuse to make. He took them around the building. When he got to the tailoring suite, Mr. Miles was stitching a shoulder seam and beaming. It was going to be amazing. Barnes was surprised when Eddie told him to come in a second. There was something else to see.

Eduardo had thrown in a little surprise of his own: he had been working on a gift for Barnes because Eddie thought he might have a set of skills that could really make a difference in his friend’s life. He had taken some of the compression materials he had used for Jess’ shirts, and the invisible thread technology from DaNeesha’s pants, and used them to make a brace for Barnes’ shoulder. The compression at the sides felt good because it was supportive, and the invisible webbing at the bottom provided a structural framework to keep a bit of the weight of the arm off of the screws that were inside his body. Then he had taken the gel fabric that had masked Barton’s knives and made the brace sink right down around his body so it was cushioned but invisible. Barnes tried it on. He couldn’t believe it. He kept moving his arm, and lifting things, and pulling out knives—which he forgot could be a shock to certain people who weren’t him. He did 30 pushups and felt nothing. How was cloth doing this? It was SO MUCH BETTER. He lifted Eddie a foot off the ground and hugged him for a full 15 seconds. Eddie’s “nah, just doing my job, bro” was pretty unconvincing. He seemed to have something in his eye. Barnes couldn’t wait to show Steve. But he’d have to wait. Halloween day. Big day.

He remembered he had a quick mission assist for Dr. Banner. Maria Hill was coming to the party as a giant bumblebee. Barnes told Banner he had a good idea, so his costume was set. That got sent up to his lab.

When he and Steve got in the car to go hand out candy with the Olds, Barnes kept poking at the brace. It was like a new toy. He could move this way, and that way, and more to this side, and Steve kept laughing until finally he said, “Hell, Buck, how bad was it in there?” Barnes told him the truth, which was that Tony found his arm was hundreds of pounds of metal screwed into the side of his body with alloy screws that still had heads on them. Every time he moves they re-tear his flesh inside. He has screws in his humerus, shoulder, clavicle, ribs and spine. Every time he sleeps, the micro-tears heal the best they can before he needs to use his arm again. To have a little invisible web to take even ten percent of the weight off was an enormous improvement. Barnes estimated Eduardo’s ingenuity may have decreased pain levels as much as 32%. Now Steve would understand why this was so great!

At least he should have. He smiled with his mouth and said that they should buy Eddie front row seats to the next U2 concert or something. That could be fun. Barnes listened to some of the playlist. There were a couple of songs he liked a lot. Steve’s eyes weren’t smiling. Steve’s eyes couldn’t be sad today. Fortunately, they quit being sad the second they got to the Olds’ apartment so they could eat lasagna and give out candy.

That night, after the Halloween party was in full swing, and Mr. Miles had put on his Charlie Chaplin suit and mustache, he got a good view of the party and the guest of honor who should be arriving any minute. Everyone else was there; Rogers was dressed in the worst cowboy outfit ever, somehow without it being planned Maria Hill was a bumblebee and Bruce Banner had shown up wearing a green shirt and a giant flower around his face. Quite serendipitous. Eduardo was wearing a full 1940s Chicano zoot suit while Magdalena was in a gorgeously beaded 1920s flapper’s dress. Mr. Miles had let himself into their apartment earlier to arrange a few surprises Eduardo had asked for. Mr. Barton had come as Thor. Thor himself was with the heard-but-never-seen Jane in lederhosen and barmaid outfits, respectively. Then the door opened. Time stopped.

Everybody stood still as Bucky Barnes walked right out of 1945 into the center of the room. Mr. Miles was exceedingly proud. He had done the uniform justice. It looked superb. Poor Rogers, drunk for the first time in 70 years on mead from Asgard, fell straight to the floor as he looked up at the apparition he wasn’t sure anyone else could see. Everybody applauded, and clapped Bucky on the back, and eventually Steve made it more or less to his feet but he couldn’t stop staring at Barnes. Once the dam burst, dear god, did it burst.

Rogers cried every single tear he hadn’t let himself cry since crashing the plane into the ice. Barnes didn’t care. Nobody else had been there. They wouldn’t get it. The damp collar was undesirable, but many good things were happening. For example, Maria the ridiculous bumblebee was making out with a giant flower behind the fake palm tree in the corner. Barton was slapping everyone and shouting, “EXCELLENT, EARTH COMPANION!” Thor laughed very loudly when DaNeesha, as an Egyptian goddess, pointed out Barton was, in the truest sense, stealing Thor’s thunder. Eddie and Magdalena had left the party at 11:30, the result of which should be joyous news. It was a night for outrageous things.

The rest of the party, everyone had a wonderful time dancing, drinking and taking ridiculous pictures with their costumes on. Stark had on this powdered wig and blush thing that was terrifying if you weren’t expecting it. Pepper came by in matching wig and rouge, with a stunning diamond necklace that showed off her beautiful neck. What could Tony say? He had been persuaded to give a bauble to the woman he loved more than anything in the universe. There was an enormous ruckus, a round of toasts and prolonged clapping after Eddie and Magdalena walked back into the party at 12:15, the party DJ asking everybody to please raise their glass to Eduardo Alvarez and Magdalena Ortiz, now officially engaged to be married.

Every woman at the party flocked around to squeal over the ring and hear the whole story (champagne on ice, living room dancing with candles, waited until tonight so they’d always remember they got engaged wearing awesome clothes and surrounded by friends), DaNeesha SQUEEEEED so loud Mr. Miles was afraid she would damage her vocal cords; ten men pushed Eddie up to the bar and devised a way to make him drink as much as he possibly could without requiring hospitalization. Mr. Miles got dragged to the bar for a few of the drinks, and Eddie kept staring at him and shouting “could this even be…could it?” No, George thought tenderly. No, it could not.

Steve and Bucky managed to reach that perfect level of buzzed but still functional and played tag, stole costume pieces and eventually wound up stumbling towards the elevator, Bucky wearing Steve’s hat and Steve picking at the weird fringe all over his costume. They walked into their apartment and stared at each other. Steve still, still couldn’t believe it was Bucky. His Bucky. That was how he thought of him. _His_ Bucky. Barnes looked him and said “idea?” Steve nodded. “Put on the plaid shirt.”

Steve went to his closet. He grabbed the button down plaid and pulled off the atrocious chaps. He used the bathroom and ran his fingers through his hair. It was messy from the hat. But, not funny messy. Sexy messy. He hoped.

He walked back out. The living room was illuminated by the lights of the city coming in through the picture window. Bucky had taken off his coat and the hat. He looked at Steve. “Captain Rogers, permission to speak freely?”

“Granted, Sgt. Barnes.”

“You promised me you didn’t plan to let it pass you by.”

“Not in a million years, Sgt. Barnes.”

“Then dance with me.”

Jarvis sent something from the mid-1940s over the speakers, band music that they both recognized but weren’t sure how. It didn’t matter. Steve had been clumsy as the smaller dancer; as the taller, he was completely hopeless. He waited for Barnes to take his hands, gently put them in the right position, then they barely moved, swaying. They moved, faces perilously close, hearing the music and feeling the way their bodies fit together. For fifteen minutes they gently moved hands to the shoulder, the face, the neck. Rogers ran his finger down the arm of the shirt; it actually felt like a GI-regulation button-down. He chuckled as his fingers felt the collar and the shoulder. “You remember when I kept ripping mine?”

Barnes smiled as he pressed his face into Steve’s neck and said “I remember it better than you’d believe. I’ll tell you some other time.”

“Oh, god. Regulation gear. Do you realize I didn’t even have a real shield when I came for you?”

“Then what the hell was it, Steve?”

“A prop from this incredibly terrible USO show they wanted me to do because they couldn’t risk the only actual super soldier, serum gone, blah blah blah. I got to you with a parachute Peggy Carter stole, in a plane flown by Howard Stark, with a prop shield that was $3.00 worth of metal and paint.”

Barnes laughed. “Why are the pretty ones always so dumb?”

He watched Steve blush and gently tapped him on the cheek. Barnes suddenly felt very nervous. He needed the truth. He didn’t know why, exactly, but somehow whatever was coming next with Tony going through his arm was going to change things permanently. Steve would know about the animal he had become. If they could recover more fragments, perhaps Steve would finally see the atrocities he was responsible for carrying out. It was one thing to hear someone tell you it was HYDRA, not Bucky. Seeing or hearing what the Winter Soldier did, it would be his own body and face. He might never get to be the perfect Bucky Barnes again. He’d rather know everything now. He would still have one perfect dance as Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes to remember. “What would have happened if we had all made it? What would we have done?”

Steve looked him in the eye. His blue eyes were bright, and soft. In that second Barnes knew. They had always known. _Oh, my god. How many years?_

“What we had always done, Buck. I would have sketched you a thousand more times and hid them from everybody I loved. You would have taken tiny scraps of my drawings and folded them into your pocket while you danced with every blonde in New York. I’d be your best man. We’d love our wives and kids. Go to baseball games, get real jobs. We’d accidentally touch reaching for the cranberry sauce at Thanksgiving and cry about it in the bathroom at two in the morning when we thought our wives were sleeping. Peggy would have a magnificent job offer that would take her back to London and we’d agree it was for the best and part friends for life. You’d cheat on your wife because you were unhappy. Maybe once we’d get shitfaced on some weird drug that even super soldiers could feel then wake up the next morning knowing a desperate, ugly, drunken fuck was what we had let ourselves sink to because we never had the guts to make love. We’d hate ourselves and everybody else because our own love disgusted us.

“Buck, do you think I haven’t thought about this? Do you think it doesn’t kill me, over and over and over, to know that maybe Captain America stayed the true hero everybody thought he was because I killed myself over you? Over **you** , Bucky. The ice wasn’t the only option. There were things I could have tried, should have tried. If I had really wanted to live, they wouldn’t have found the cockpit in pristine condition. There’s no telling how much shit I might have done to stop the bomb from falling but still save myself.  Captain America got to be a hero because when he died everybody knew his last words were to his best girl. She was, Buck. She was my best girl and I’ll never deny it. I will never diminish who she was to me. She was my best girl because once I became Captain America they could never let me have my best guy.” He choked on the last sentence. “I could never have you.”

Barnes knew he was crying and realized he didn’t care. The future Steve had described, it was true. It would all have been true. He would have made a sport of getting the most gorgeous wife anybody could imagine, and break world records to get her pregnant. He would have kissed Peggy on the cheek when they met at restaurants on Friday nights. He’d watch Steve draw pictures of his kids and remember how it felt when he had seen himself on the page. How he looked to Steve. How he looked to the only person he could ever, ever…

“Wait here.”

He went to the bottom drawer and pulled it out, along with the note.

“This.”

He turned on a small lamp as Steve read the note Mr. Miles had sent along with the pocket square. He ran his fingers over his shield embroidered in white. In a voice Barnes had never heard before Steve whispered “might as well get the complete sit rep, Sergeant.” He came back with his blue suit jacket, the one he wore on tour for asthma research. Folded neatly in the front breast pocket was the silvery-grey pocket square. Bucky looked up and said, “No. No, it can’t.” Steve smiled. “Told him it was a prop for a mission.”

Bucky pulled out the square, the metallic sheen unmistakably resembling his arm. There was a small red star in the corner.

“Permission to speak freely, Captain Rogers?”

“Granted, Sergeant Barnes.”

“We’re FUBAR, sir.”

“Have been since the day we met.”

“Then I request we stay in 1945 and dance awhile longer, sir.”

“Hell yes, soldier.”

So they did. 1945 was a very different year when the war was won and you held the love of your life in the middle of the dance floor, whispering into his ear every single feeling you had been willing to die for rather than say aloud.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barnes remembers what he did. He's desperate to know: can Mr. Miles ever forgive him?

 

Every perfect night ends. In this case, it ended with various pieces of clothing scattered around Steve’s bed, with Bucky holding him tightly until ten in the morning. They woke up slowly. Asgardian mead wasn’t bad as hangovers go, but it wasn’t sunshine in a glass, either. Not to mention it was the first time either of them had been drunk since before the Truman administration.

Both men laid there for a second, re-orienting to the world at large. Some things had changed, some hadn’t. Neither one regretted telling every single truth they thought they’d never say. Interestingly, neither man regretted keeping physical contact to a minimum, either. They were spooning (Barnes laughed at that word. Hee! Spooning. Spoooooooning. It was a great word) and that had been the end of it. The things that came after should come after whatever pits of hell they were going to traverse the next 48 to 72 hours.

They ate pancakes. Tony sent a message that they should meet in his lab at one for the planning session. When they got down there, George and Eddie were also there, looking at an array of tools, robotic helpers and cameras. Bite-Size came to shake Barnes’ finger. He listened for a second and replied “I know you will, little guy.” Steve took a quick step over to shake Eddie’s hand and wish him every happiness. Eddie nodded and said he had to be the luckiest guy on the planet. Steve knew what he meant.

The various parties came to an agreement. There would be a couch in the lab, far enough away from Barnes that they couldn’t accidentally contaminate anything. Dr. Banner would be off to one side, making sure brain activity appeared normal and stabilized. George, Esther and Eddie would be sitting on that couch for as little or as long as they wished. Tony explained they had no idea in what order they might find things. He also explained that he didn’t know how they would be receiving information. There were speakers, screens and some older technology that might suit the time when the old teletype machines had been set up. Barnes would have the choice to face the couch or away from it. Ideally, George and his support network would only be there to hear what was relevant to them, then they may wait a day or two before visiting Barnes in a convalescence suite that would be set up in his living room, just like George had gotten. George nodded and said “Jimmy, you’ll be fighting fit in no time.” Eddie looked a touch surprised at the ‘Jimmy’ but said nothing.

Dr. Banner had set up a small cubicle at the back with a window but speakers that could be muted. In the back of his mind, he was thinking George may need time alone to hear the worst of it. This way he was there but not quite so “on display.”

Tony and Cap stepped out of the room for a moment while they had a very quiet discussion that could be heard by everybody on that floor, each floor above and below, and probably down to the coffee shop since, unfortunately, there was a shared vent duct. Cap was concerned they were going into the entire arm at once, when doing it in pieces might mean less pain. Tony replied he couldn’t tolerate having Captain von Sap in there because he’d be prevented from doing things that could be painful in the short term but make Barnes’ life much better in the long term. Cap didn’t want Barnes left alone with a man who still blamed the Winter Soldier for the death of his parents. Tony replied that Barnes had an army of robots to come to his aid if at any point he felt like he was being punished. Cap replied none of those robots would flatten Tony if he triggered something in Barnes that made him permanently anything other than Bucky Barnes. Tony shouted that was a RISK we all knew he was taking, and Cap retorted with “the SACRIFICE he was making because even as they tortured him there was still a good man in there that never died!” Then there was a long silence and nobody heard what happened. Both men came in looking like they had been forced to suck on a lemon.

It was no coincidence that Pepper came in right behind them, and warmly greeted Barnes with that smile that could surely be calibrated to show wattage. Pepper probably had a 20 watt smile, 40, 60, 75 which could go to 100 watts. She walked up to ask George how his part-time hours in the office were going, then hugged Eddie and said Magdalena had better realize what a catch she had landed. She walked up to the stool where Cap might be able to sit with Barnes and asked _him_ what he thought of this proximity. They made sure to have a plan in place that let Steve feel like he could “protect Bucky, like he had done for Steve all those years in the respiratory wards.” In her inimitable way, Pepper made it sound like Barnes was being a very good friend for letting Steve have a chance to repay some decades-old warmth and devotion. Cap could be on a stool holding Bucky’s other hand, or out of the room entirely. All Barnes had to do was say. This was entirely about what was right for him. Everything in the room became more serene and composed by her presence. She gave Tony a conspicuous kiss on the lips and said “I thought Ethiopian tonight? Eat on the floor, I got that movie you thought was hilarious so it should be very relaxing. The English police one, Hot and Fuzzy, or something. Anyway, I booked a short energy massage for you at 7:40 tomorrow, with fruit and toast the way Jarvis used to make for you at 8:25. See all of you tomorrow, be well!” She managed to wave at everyone but make it seem like _their_ wave was a bit special, then left.

Steve had a big smile on his face. Everyone in the room took it for the compliment that it was, when he commented it was nice to know after they made Peggy Carter they had kept the mold safe to make one or two more, just in case.

Then came the last-minute contingency plans. For one, Barnes had ambivalence towards any painkillers, but he didn’t spell out why. Steve knew the way they made him feel sleepy would mean feeling loss of control over this situation.  Barnes relented to use of a mild local injection should his pain become unbearable. Everyone agreed that if they stumbled across something exceedingly horrific they would shut down immediately, clear the room and give Barnes time to collect himself. Nobody would say it, but everyone was thinking it; they didn’t want Barnes to have to hear or see his own brutalization. It was too much for anyone. If Barnes asked for the room, it would be granted, no questions asked, if he would consent to let Steve remain behind as someone who would not approach, lie or give false hope.

Barnes asked how they were going to translate languages on any output through the audio/visual channel. Either Nat could be there in person or Jarvis could translate through his computer systems. In the end, if there was something confusing or Jarvis intuited he wasn’t getting a full meaning, they would call Nat to see if code was being used. Barnes shot Nat a quick text and she said she’d be happy to spend the day in her apartment relaxing, so if she was needed they could reach her right away and translate through Jarvis or come down. She then texted Barnes in Russian to tell him if he was being pressured to do something he didn’t want he could have a code word. It made both of them happy; a little old-fashioned espionage to ensure she’d come running if needed. They decided on “это пиздец.” To the others in the room it would sound like “Eto pizdets.” Very easy to slip in to a brief message via Jarvis. They trusted Jarvis to maintain his customary discretion and not tell the whole room that Barnes was saying “this is fucked up.”

She ended by saying she knew Steve would be there for him every step, but Steve could get too…not Russian. Barnes typed LOL. Steve would have lasted about five minutes as a stern, cold, ruthless Soviet. Then again, that was why Barnes loved hi…s company. He had almost said it last night, the real words, but he was waiting. Steve was too, for exactly the right moment. They’d never put it in those terms, but they were both waiting until Tony had proven his genius in repairing some of Bucky’s damage, both physically and psychologically.

George asked if they had a backup plan if things went pear-shaped and they needed a lot of languages or codes translated quickly. All Tony said was “It’s handled, George. We send it to an outfit in Fairfax, Virginia.” Steve nodded. He had asked weeks ago if there was any chance they could go outside the box, so to speak, if they needed to translate, if they needed to hear things while…while…Bruce and Tony mutually guaranteed there was a backup plan so that nobody Barnes knew would hear him being sexually assaulted. It was a service they had first put in place when scanning things Nat had needed. It was little-known protocol that in-house translating or live interpretation was handled by a team outside New York that did something so special they had a clearance rate above the President. Secrecy didn’t begin to cover what the Fairfax outfit did. Steve wondered how the hell that was possible. A question for another day.

They agreed to be back at nine that next morning. It was almost like a funeral being planned. Everyone left feeling heavy. It was ominous.

On the way back to the 32nd floor Bucky turned to Steve and said “do you understand the properties of ultraviolet light?”

“Well, A) not very well but I get the basics, that it’s light beyond what we can see. And B) any idea where that came from, or…what the hell?”

“I’ll explain later,” Bucky said as he got off and walked towards the door.

“Neat.”

The two of them kept bumping into each other in the apartment. It wasn’t like the apartment itself had changed dimensions, it was…they were so much bigger now. They wanted to keep focused on tomorrow, but revisit last night. If spending the rest of their lives in last night had been an option, it would have been really tempting. As it stood, real life doesn’t work that way, even for super soldiers. So. What to do? Baking was right out. The kitchen wasn’t designed to produce that many damn cookies again.

Barnes realized he hadn’t ever cracked why the seam ripper seemed important to him. He asked Steve if he’d be willing to try something. He’d need the very strong shirt.

“What the hell am I getting myself into, Buck?” He was already walking away, taking off the “I survived my visit to Detroit” T-shirt. When the Avengers showing up caused the _least_ amount of damage a city had seen, that was, as DaNeesha once said, some “100% serious shit, for real, you guys.” DaNeesha had lived there for 14 years and more than once Steve heard her mention things that sounded like what battle-hardened soldiers went through.

Barnes watched as Steve removed the shirt. Steve’s skin was smooth. He didn’t have the jagged scars and holes, mangled flesh stuck around a metal arm. It wasn’t that Barnes was ashamed of his scars. He wasn’t, because it wasn’t his choice to seek out the situations that created them, but they did prove he could live through anything. Just about anything. The next 36 hours could be make or break. Steve came back in the plaid shirt. Before Barnes understood it was his own mouth talking he heard “if I don’t get better shirts you won’t go out with me anymore.” He heard himself say it. Not “be seen with” or “tolerate my peasant army surplus coat” or some smartass thing. It was “go out.” The salads. Leaving, together. Not like soup with Clint or getting a cup of coffee with Dr. Banner at the exact same time Maria Hill always picked hers up. For the love of Lenin, could he NOT do this right now?

“I put up with your ugly ass hogging all my girls in Brooklyn. I’ll survive, Sgt. Barnes,” in a voice so wry it belonged in a delicatessen. Bucky actually said “hee!” as he laughed. It was not un-cute.

“Please come at me with the seam ripper. Not full speed—walk towards me and attack at 75% your usual speed.” Steve waited a second to make sure Bucky was fully engaged and ready, then went for his neck. Bucky defended himself easily with his metal arm, which was also calibrated to minimize any hurt he’d inflict on Steve by accident.

“That didn’t do anything. I recall the instrument, but why? Try slashing me across the gut.” Again, Steve did it. The block was automatic and effective as the first. Third attempt to come down onto Bucky’s head. Nothing. Going for the eye. Dammit.

They switched places. How can somebody know a tool and the place it was used but not what happened? What if Barnes tried to slash Steve at 75% speed? In the gut, it didn’t mean anything. What about something weird, his foot? Damn. In the ear? If you pretended it was a gun and made somebody kneel—

“ROGERS. ROGERS. TAKE IT AWAY. TAKE IT AWAY. FUCKING MOTHERFUCKING no, no, no. No. Drop it. NO. HHHHHHHHHH oh, god. No. HHHHHHHHHHHHH.” Closet. Closet. WITHDRAW. CLOSET.

 

Steve opened the front door and threw the seam ripper down the hall, shouting “Jarvis have a PA take the seam ripper to Eddie and tell Eddie to hide it somewhere Barnes will never find it. Get Tony on.”

In an eternity that lasted four seconds Stark came on with “Wha-” and Steve said, “Shut up and listen. Bucky was toying around with a thing he had seen in the sewing suite and just now he went into catatonic meltdown. Full fucking thousand yard stare. I think he knows the whole story now about George’s father. I know he’ll tell you and George but right now for his own safety I need some things.”

In a fraction of a second Tony remembered watching helplessly as Barnes had carried Pepper, shoeless, off the jet. He had cleaned her up. For Chrissakes—Pepper herself had told him that she had seen the bomber and didn’t even have time to scream before she was rolling on the ground while Barnes used his entire body to shield her from the blast and thousands of glass shards everywhere.

“Cap, anything. I mean anything. Jarvis, make all of this happen no matter what the cost.”

Steve sounded like he was choking. What the hell had happened up there? “Tony I need pills that will sedate him if it’s in his best interests. Tell Sam Wilson where we are and be prepared to intervene or hospitalize Bucky if he wants it. Third, get Jarvis to lock down the tailoring suite until further notice and tell Eddie why. He’ll understand. Tell Eddie we’ll have answers for George. Finally, until I say so, double bodyguards on George Miles. He is never unattended. Don’t think Buck’s so far gone he’d go looking but we can’t take that chance. OK?”

“It’s already in motion. Anything else I should know?”

“Yeah. This just happened because he agreed to help understand his own flashbacks by letting YOU work with his arm. He was working on his own with weapons he remembered before being frozen. I am going to be in there every single fucking second and anything else he wants is in there as well. If he wants you to work on his arm while he’s drinking triple shot mochas and eating appetizers cooked by Anthony fucking Bourdain you make it happen. I’m going in to him now. Rogers out.”

Tony regarded the wall for a second. Captain America had just said the F-word three times in under a minute.

Pepper walked in. “Why are you staring at the wall, Tony?”  
Tony got JARVIS to replay the conversation he had just finished.

Pepper smiled a little. “Poor Steve. He’s so in love it’s physically painful to watch and the man he was always meant to be with won’t come out of the closet. The actual closet in his bedroom. It’s very meta.” She sighed and giggled at the same time. “That was a lot of F-bombs he dropped just now.” She looked at Tony with a soft smile, and received one in return that only she, in all the world, had seen. It was what happened when exceptional people had finally, usually unwillingly, met their match.

Tony looked at the one person he’d parachute into hell for. _Oh, Cap, you sorry son of a bitch,_ Tony reflected _. You’re done for_.

********

“Bucky, please tell me.” He got silence. Was he in shock? Was he hearing flashback noises and couldn’t get back to now? If he was back there could military jargon cut through the fog?

“Barnes. Sgt. Barnes!  I need a sit rep immediately.” Silence.

Steve realized something that made him move the fastest he had ever moved in his life. He flung the sheet, mattress and box springs off the bed, frantically looking for four knives. Yes. One each corner. The dresser. One up top, the other, the other, the

“BARNES IF YOU DON’T LET ME IN THIS VERY SECOND I’M BREAKING IN.”

The three seconds he waited couldn’t be measured with a clock. He was being flayed alive. He registered Jarvis saying that the seam ripper was now off of the 32nd floor and Sam was coming, ETA four minutes along with a paramedic if needed. Cap cried “let them in, just get them in here!”

Steve knew he’d promised to respect his space and privacy and OH FUCK IT YOU MIGHT BE DYING, BUCKY. He ripped the closet doors out and threw them on top of the bed. “Bucky! Buck. Barnes. Look at me. Look at me.”

Barnes was holding the knife. It didn’t appear he had used it anywhere on himself but that was potentially deceiving. It was theoretically possible to wound a super solder deeply enough to cause organ damage or to open a major blood vessel but for the point of entry to heal quickly. Cap stared at the knife. He didn’t see any blood. None on the carpet, no cuts on clothing, no smears on the wall.

“Flying Sam incoming, Buck. ETA less than three minutes. We can do anything to help you. Anything. I promise you I will never stop until, until, please, Buck. What did you remember? Please tell me. Nothing will change between us. Nothing.”

“HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH” _No. No. No. No. No. HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. I did it. I did. I did. I did. Rectangle for circle and I did it. I’m so sorry I’m sorry sorry sorry sorry. I made the sounds. I made it right by making all the sounds. Please believe me. I made all of them. I did._

Barnes was shut in the closet backed into the corner. The corner is the only logical place. No way for an unseen hostile combatant to approach. Single point of entry. He could hear After Steve bellowing in the living room. After Steve will never look at him the same way. Never. Barnes can feel his insides shredding. He must pull himself apart. After Steve cannot ever love or trust him and this is too much. Mr. Miles and Eddie and Pepper were wrong. Tony was right. It’s him. He, James Buchanan Barnes, he is the monster. The Soviets just gave him an arm. It feels right to shred himself. To be what he was supposed to be then.

After Steve can never love him, because he loved the Bucky-person. It was the Bucky-person who did this. He knew it all. The sharp-point-pull when he laid down on the nightmarish chair where he was strapped in. Getting the legs, the arm fitted, then the Soviet arm hidden. Not in Russian; in English, because that was the language they had in common. Once more sharp-point-pull, sharp-point-pull when the metal arm was done. One last trade. Rectangle for circle. He did the circle because he got his rectangle and he tried to be fair. Oh, God, no. George would know. And mission assists Esther, Lidia and Ollie. And Eddie, who thought he deserved a nice brace that helped so much.

After Steve would know. The way he was bigger than Barnes was now, it meant things were never quite the way he had daydreamed about when he was 19, 20. He had always imagined that if they ever got to kiss, in a different world where kissing him would be OK, he would be the one to bend down. It was After Steve that made him feel safe, and like he was funny, like he could be very smart about some things. After Steve that carried out an illegal personal mission to find him when others forgot. After Steve contained Before Steve. That was the worst. The kid that spent half his days with a fat lip or a yellow/purple eye, Before Steve that drew Bucky sitting and drinking coffee. Bucky but a little more handsome, a little more interesting, a little more everything. _More deserving of love._

He cried against the corner of the wall. Before Steve, who had loved him like nobody ever had before or since, would know the truth. He would know the last horrible act he committed before fully becoming the Winter Soldier.

“Barnes. Approaching on your 11 o’clock. It is mission imperative to check for injury.”

Steve looked at Bucky’s face. Everybody talked about it. There wasn’t an active combat soldier alive in any time, any combat zone that hadn’t seen it. It was soldier’s heart, De Costa’s syndrome, shell shock, battle fatigue, war neurosis, PTSD; how many damn words does the English language need to describe the horror of watching someone in no critical danger behave as though their life depended on what happened in the next few seconds?  

Steve had no idea what to do. He’d pay a quarter of a million dollars, in cash, this instant, for help. It was a good thing he said that only to himself, because he heard Sam enter right behind him. Bucky looked at Sam like he didn’t exactly know him, but he wasn’t the enemy, either. He filed his report to Sam because if Steve called for him then he must be the one who instigated the mission.

“Sir, confirmed hit. I dispatched the non-combatant. No witnesses.” Bucky said in a flat monotone to Sam.

Steve whirled around. “Sam? Sam? Please help him. Anything. Initial assessment shows no knife wounds. I’ll do anything, buy or say whatever you want, please make this OK again.”

“Hey, Steve. Head on out. Talk to my Aussie posse about what happens next.” Then Sam went and stood closer to Barnes while making it clear he had no intention of touching him.

“Hey Barnes,” Sam began, it a tone of voice that was warm yet authoritative. “We’re gonna have a chat now, just the two of us, and I mean that. So, Steve, that means you need to go out and do something else for a little while.”

“Are you JOKING? I can’t leave him! There’s no way on god’s green earth I’m leaving him.”

“Did you call me to handle this?” Steve nodded dumbly. “Well there ya go. Take a walk, Captain. Now, please.”

He heard Sam ask if it was okay to have a seat near the closet. Then the paramedic closed the door. Steve looked at him. “What do you do here?”

The paramedic smiled. “If needed, I go in with some meds. But I’m pretty much superfluous.” The paramedic smiled again as he saw Steve register his Australian accent. It got him a long way with the ladies, but wasn’t pertinent here, so he continued “Sam’s the best in the business. I hardly ever need to go in. But I’m sure you can understand why I don’t leave my post.” Steve nodded. He could respect a person that would do his or her job above socializing. “Now, Captain, do you understand why Sam told you to go for a walk?”

Steve looked down. He assumed it was because he was doing something wrong and he didn’t know what it was.

“Steve, I don’t want to intrude on your personal life, but are you and James really close?”

“Bucky. Yes. We are.”

“Well, there you have it, mate. People with severe PTSD can sometimes be afraid to work through what they need to because they’re afraid the people they love the most will think less of them. He may also be afraid you’ll blame him for something he had to do in a combat situation.”

“Never. Ever. But, I think I’ll go away for, have Sam text me. Uh, sorry. Didn’t catch your name.”

“Lachlan. Everybody calls me Lucky.”

Steve was on his way out the door, phone in hand. “Last name?”

“Williams. Why?”

“How did you find out about this kind of work?”

“Uh, where I started, I guess. After Afghanistan. Wandering Warriors works with Australian soldiers wounded in combat.”

“Jarvis, did you get all that?”

“Naturally, sir. How may I assist?”

“Send $15,000 to Wandering Warriors from an anonymous source to honor the work done by Mr. Williams.”

“It’s been sent, I shall email you a receipt, Captain Rogers.”

Rogers then walked out the door and Williams stood outside Sgt. Barnes’ door, waiting to hear the signal he was needed. The signal was usually obvious; the sound of things being thrown at great velocity, phrases like “it’s best if I end it all right here” or Sam shouting “gun!” In the meantime, he pondered how many people who had kept him together would benefit from the anonymous gift from Captain America. One thing for sure; he’d guarantee that no man on earth could say a word against Captain America in Lucky’s presence. Not without getting flattened by a Royal Australian Regiment vet who served in Operation Slipper as part of the Dutch-led Task Force Uruzgan, Forward Operating Base Ripley. As a rule he was against civilian violence, but the RAR were called the Tigers for a fucking reason and Captain America had just made himself an honorary Tiger for life.

Steve couldn’t walk, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t even think of who to go talk to. That’s how he found himself wandering around the area where George’s apartment was. He asked Jarvis to call ahead and was told he was welcome. He knocked and found he was shocked at how the older man was dressed.

“I know. It’s perfectly hideous, isn’t it? But Eduardo gave it to me years ago and I felt like it was something I ought to put on right about now. I don’t know if I can keep calm and carry on, but by God we must endeavor, mustn’t we?”

“George, can I tell you what happened today?”

“Of course. Do you want anything?” Steve shook his head, but then said “Tea? You always have tea. Does it help?”

George patted him on the shoulder and said “It helps me because I was raised English and English people require a certain amount of tea in their bloodstream to maintain our Englishness. I’ve heard horror stories of perfectly normal Englishmen forgetting the name of the Queen or having a slack upper lip in as little as five hours without tea.” By that time the kettle was on and George was bringing over a selection of tea bags then coming back with saucers and cups of hot water.

Rogers looked lost. The poor man just started spilling events of the night like he wasn’t sure if he could remember how it had started for certain; let’s see if we can remember what the seam ripper does, various slashes and stabbing techniques done with slow and careful judgement, the part where they were talking about kneeling, then Bucky’s complete meltdown, where he ran to the closet and had taken the knife with him. It was horrible. It was so horribly, horribly scary to think of Buck caught in a place where he thought he needed a knife for, what? To hurt himself? Kill somebody? Steve turned to the table and found tissues waiting for him; he had never noticed their arrival. He finished with the nose puffy and his eyes red, saying over and over “I want all of them dead, George. I want to kill every single horrific bastard that made him this way.”

George gave him a few more seconds, realizing the sentiment was perfectly normal. It’s just hard to remember this had happened 70 years ago. They _were_ all dead. Most probably lived normal, fruitful lives that included careers protecting their beloved country. They had sacrificed Jimmy to do it. Dear God, how unfair this was.

“You know Steve, I dread tomorrow so very much.” Steve looked up in surprise. “Truly. I do. I want to know about how my life came to be the one I have, and more about my Papa and Mamusia, but at the same time it’s very scary. What if they’re not innocent? Or what if the Mother and Father I knew were just playing an act, they never thought of me as their own child? Was I a bargaining chip? Am I here today because Howard Stark was trying to gain the affections of my mother?

“Tomorrow we’ll all go in there, and, for ALL of us, we’ll do our best. It might be what’s best for the history of SI or the history of the people who were involved. I don’t know. What we do know is we’ll have done our best to look for answers, and much more importantly we’ll fix Barnes’ arm as best we can. Think about that. Think about how much pain he has been in, every single day. Jimmy deserves a life without so much pain.

“Plus, we have a good plan. Esther and Eduardo will be with me for support, and you and Barnes will keep each other sane and functional. Dr. Banner will keep an eye on Tony Stark and I’m positive Pepper will find an excuse to pop in and out. If that’s not a full system of check and balances I don’t know what could be!”

Steve thought a second. “We need to get that PA that’s friends with Eddie to bring down sandwiches and drinks around 1:00. She’s upbeat and everybody likes her.”

“DaNeesha. Jarvis, make a note of that. See? We’re all set.”

Steve’s phone buzzed, “I gotta go back. Thanks for this, Mr. Miles.”

“Always, Mr. Rogers.”

Sam was outside, and Lucky was picking stuff up inside. “OK, Steve. We agreed to avoid any pharmaceutical intervention because then he wouldn’t legally be able to consent to tomorrow’s procedures on his arm. Everything he said was typical of a person with PTSD, not under the influence of drugs or alcohol. I’m not acting as Barnes’ individual counselor, but my rules of confidentiality will still apply because he needs to know he can talk me without it affecting how the other Avengers see him. That said, there are a few general statements he is willing to have me say to you because they’re too hard for him to express. Would you like to hear them or have me email them because that’s less personal?

“Tell me. Please, tell me. I’ll do anything you say, I swear.”

“You should know that by far his single biggest fear is loss of your love. It won’t do him much good to reinforce you promise that can’t happen because you haven’t heard what he has to say. My advice is to be calm and nurturing tonight, do gentle things together, reinforce that it’s time with him you crave, not him being a certain way. Also, a light dinner and no breakfast are best so he doesn’t throw it up. Any questions?

“What do I do if he does this in the chair tomorrow?”

“Tony has put me on emergency speed-dial tomorrow. As it works out, the one group I have tomorrow was being led by a guest anyway; she’s an expert on how female soldiers can feel like the ranks close if they are honest about sexual assault they have survived when the perpetrator was a fellow soldier.”

“There are—that’s a major…WHAT? OUR OWN PEOPLE **? AMERICANS ARE DOING THIS?!?”**

“Afraid so. We estimate one in four or five women is harassed, and a very high number of men and women are assaulted. Often nothing is done because the offender was higher in rank. We also face issues because it’s labeled ‘hazing,’ not assault.”

“WHAT? I—YOU—CAN’T EVEN TRUST—HOLY SHITBALLS. I’M DONE. I’M DONE.” He ran his fingers through his hair until it all stood on end and stared out the living room window like it was the first five minutes since his Wake Up. He was lost and stunned all over again.

“Yeah, Cap. It’s ugly stuff. But people like you and me, we’re the good ones. We help make it better. The same way you need to go in there and be what Barnes needs. It’s gonna be a rough time, man. We’re in it together. Remember that.”

“I, uh, thanks Sam.” The last two words sounds like they were leaking out of him. His head felt like it had a tight band squeezing it and his insides were hard. Everything he touched would hurt him. “Sam, what’s the charity working for those women?”

Sam looked mildly surprised. “Uh, a lot of women find us through servicewomen.org. Service Women’s Action Network, SWAN, helps the women find resources that will include treatment and plans to make sure none of the survivors feel alone or ashamed.”

Lachlan, the Aussie Posse, had his kit packed up and obviously shaken hands with Barnes and come out to go wherever Sam was headed next.

“Jarvis?”

“Yes, Captain Rogers?

“Same as last time, to SWAN. From a soldier that thanks them for their sacrifice and service to our country. Not anonymous, though. Sam, any chance my fame would make people pay more attention what our military has become?”

Sam smiled with his whole body, “Yuh-huh. A message from Captain America calling for men to stop being aggressors and telling the survivors you care would be a big deal, man. Huge. Any chance, any at all, you would do an ad?”

“Absolutely. Suited up. TV, net and print. Whatever you need.”

“Technically I can’t answer on behalf on SWAN. I’ll tell them your offer. It’s a huge deal, man. America’s most famous patriot back to tell them they’re not supposed to hurt each other. Man, I will never, ever complain about getting passed on the left in my life, I swear on my mother’s grave.”

“Sam, your mother is lovely, bakes a mean pie and is among the living in Harlem. But, thanks so much, Sam. I’ll talk to you, hopefully not see you, tomorrow, okay?”

Sam clapped him across the shoulder. “He’s stronger than we can imagine, Steven. It’ll be fine. You will, too. Uh, what’s ‘the last time’ mean?”

“Lucky can explain. Thanks, gentlemen.”

He heard the walking towards the elevator and was slightly gratified to hear Sam yelp “He what?” He couldn’t fix Barnes. He felt hopeless and terrified. He didn’t often tell people how much money he was worth. He didn’t even know, exactly. Between his back pay, and money from a few ads he did about being a good citizen (don’t litter, don’t drive drunk), he had nice sum set aside. He lived on his salary from Stark. Growing up, he was taught to value experience more than things. Thus, when he saw his little nest egg in the reserved corner for Stark investors, the amount was a decent size to shell out to a charity now and again. Not just any old charity. It had to be one that he believed in, and one that touched someone close to his heart. Lucky was willing to jump in not only to save Sam, but to do it without hurting Bucky. He hoped the money could save even one person the fear and trepidation he had felt tonight.

He rapped on the door as softly as he could. It was quite a nice door. That said, he was technically engineered to be the world’s best fighting machine, he was terrified and the most important person in his world was on the other side. More than once he had burst through nice doors without really meaning to. He would have thrown this whole door down the hall if he could. He heard, in a hiccup-y and a hoarse voice saying, “Come in.” He opened the door slowly, telegraphing all of his moves. He came in and looked at Bucky. Aw, no. He thought he could withstand anything at all, go through anything, after he lost Buck the first time. He had never imagined Bucky’s face could be so swollen from crying. Steve damn near lost it right there, seeing how red and swollen the other man’s eyes were. One of the things Sam had told him was to remember this man had chosen to be called Barnes. Now was not the time for an intimate nickname.

“Barnes, tell me how I can help.”

“Come sit with me. In the closet.”

“Yeah, sure.” He had always wondered what the hell was in here. Instead of having one shelf that ran the length of the closet up high there was one short wall with six shelves. There were a few T-shirts and some athletic pants folded on one shelf. “Is this OK?” Barnes nodded yes. Steve took a quick look around. There were two pairs of shoes. The bar to hang clothing was completely empty. Not even hangers. Steve sat with his back to the six shelves. He was facing Bucky but making it clear he didn’t plan to come closer until invited.  Barnes looked at him.

“You’re wondering why I come in here.”

“Uh, the thought had crossed my mind, yes.”

“Several rationales. One; it’s a classic defensible position. Very limited possibility of breach from behind as I trust Mission Assist Building to warn me should hostiles approach through our vent systems. From our floor, I should have time to hear entrance via elevator or stairwell and then entry into our apartment and my room. Hostiles must open the door to my room before reaching the closet, thus I have time to prepare. My drills indicate I can reach a state of readiness between 4 to 6 seconds. I control point of entry and can stock my shelves with weapons if I deem necessary. Psychologically, makeup of the room is objectively comforting. It’s small. Feels secure. Mission Assist Building says many researchers have discovered people with PTSD desire access to spaces where they feel nobody else will seek to control the environment. Hiding is useful. I can do anything I want in here and nobody will see me, not even Jarvis.”

Steve noticed Barnes ( _Bucky!_ His entire body screamed. _BUCKY_. _BUCKY_ , _please_ ) sounded slightly detached. He was one step slower, one note flat. The strangest memory popped into Steve’s head. The Howling Commandos had been walking away from a joint Allied assault on a HYDRA facility. This one required help from several units due to the rumor a concentration camp may be concealing the facility. It was mostly successful mission, their objective achieved but Dernier took a deep hit in the leg. A Jeep headed to a separate Commonwealth-run medical unit offered to give him a lift to a forward medical base 11 klicks away. Dernier would get the wound cleaned up and sewn, then the Canadians would deliver him to the Howlies in the morning. The HCs quickly passed the hat and came up with 9 cigarettes and a chocolate bar to say thanks. The guys walked silently towards their own pickup point for 20 minutes before Dugan said “Goddammit, we only have one mobile formation and Dernier fucked it up. I can’t tell who the hell is walking anywhere.” It was the closest thing to sentiment he may have ever heard from Dugan. It was true, though. You walked in as a unit knowing who your 3, 6 and 9 o’clock man were. Steve remembered that feeling now. Steve and Buck only ever walked in one formation. Bucky didn’t have his flank. Cap felt exposed and scared. He couldn’t begin to imagine how Barnes was feeling.

“Oh. Sure, Barnes. That makes sense. What’s the second reason?”

Barnes looked up. Steve looked up, too. Slowly, without him even noticing, Steve’s eyes watered. The tears fell silently down his face, and he nodded. The walls were plain because any untrained civilian looking in a closet looks at the walls and the floor. Barnes knew this. Nobody ever looks at the ceiling of a closet. The single light in the middle of the ceiling illuminated dozens of sketches. Some he had given to Bucky, some he must have made copies from out of Steve’s books. Sketches of when they were young, sketches of Bucky in uniform. One of the right side of his face; Steve had done that one just last week. There were pictures of places in Brooklyn where they went. Pictures of the Olds. A picture from the Halloween party where Bucky was drunk wearing Steve’s hat and Steve was looking at him... _oh, good Lord_ , _if I look at him like that every time I see him then the entire world knows I’m in love with him._ Barton slurping noodles. Eddie laughing with a giant hamburger in front of him. DaNeesha and Eddie gossiping at the coffee bar. Nat, Tony, Maria and Bruce lifting glasses of champagne. Thor and Jane with her pretending to lift the hammer. Bite-size and a few other machines posing like Charlie’s Angels in the lab. Robots could pose?!

There was a sketch of Steve that had been done by a hand he didn’t recognize. It was very good. Possibly Eddie? A newspaper photo of Barnes lifting Pepper to safety. Pepper, Maria and Nat drinking coffee. Mr. Miles stitching something together. Eleanor the cat sitting on Ollie’s lap.

The largest single picture, closest to the dim light, was of him. A photo of Steve wearing the plaid shirt staring right at him. He recognized it as the split second after Bucky had said ‘Then dance with me.’ Steve knew it was that moment because the darkness of the room helped hide his blush but not the waves of _want_ emanating from his body. Bucky could take pictures, somehow. He had been taking pictures of moments he never wanted to forget. The dance picture was the moment they had finally, really admitted to themselves and each other that they were in love. Bucky immortalized the instant Captain America did something not out of duty, obligation, fairness, defense or protection. The only selfish and irrational thing Steve Rogers had EVER done totally for himself. Falling in love with Barnes.

Barnes would never, ever understand why he was the one to get that soft smile. To see his eyes light up when Barnes touched his neck or remembered a fragment from the days before the war. Barnes treasured that picture above all others because it was proof that at one time, for a small while in the Avengers Tower, he was worthy of the love of Stevie. Not Captain Rogers, although of course he was very proud of that. His Stevie, the one who couldn’t walk in the winter, or play sports, or avoid fights. That Stevie had been his and no one could take that from him. Even if Hydra tortured him for another 70 years, for a very short time Stevie had chosen him over everybody. Everybody. Barnes had tears running down his face, too.

It was the Sistine Chapel of the life he had made for himself since he had done the impossible. He had reprogrammed himself and this was the proof that he had made a good life for himself, a life with laughter, silly moments, good food, an extended family, and friends, and. And. _And him._ Steve looked down, both men feeling really silly that crying was happening.

“Are you ready for tomorrow, Barnes?”

“Yeah. I am. Are you calling me Barnes because Flying Sam wants you to respect the identity I have created for myself?

“Yes. I told him I would do anything to help and he thought that would. And, somehow in all of this, I’ve agreed to appear in a TV commercial. We can talk about that one later, though.”

“Will you be wearing chaps?”

“Let’s assume not.”

“You need to work on your contract negotiation skills.”

“Let’s leave chaps penciled in for further discussion. Nothing’s off the table.”

“Uh, one thing I do know right now, sometimes it’s good when you call me Barnes. With the others I feel like Barnes _._ Like I don’t call you, childhood nicknames, except in my head _._ I’m Barnes here. I’m more mature. I’ve been through a lot. Bucky wasn’t this man. Bucky was a young man. He didn’t know how terrible of a place this world could be. Nat, Barton, Tony, all of the others…they know. Flying Sam said I can’t return fully to being Bucky because Bucky lived in a world that was before knowing all that. He also said, if I wanted to, I could be Bucky with somebody that makes me feel so safe and so protected that it’s OK to not be mature for a while. I asked if that’s why DaNeesha calls Mr. Miles Georgie even though the rest of us would never do that.”

“She does that? Holy cow, how did he take it?”

“I saw it once when I was, uh, this is complicated.”

“Barnes, tell me.”

“I was double-checking Mr. Miles was safe. I didn’t know his driver’s credentials. DaNeesha delivered toast ‘to Georgie.’ I quickly scanned it and it came up negative for the five most common poisons so I let it pass. DaNeesha only calls Mr. Miles ‘Georgie’ when nobody else will hear it. Flying Sam said those nicknames are for when people make us feel a certain way, we allow that from them because it doesn’t feel, he had a word for it, _derogatory_ coming from them. Several of our team have nicknames for each other they never use in public. Tony calls Pepper ‘Miss Fourth of July’ for some reason. Nat calls—

“Whoa! I get the idea, thanks. So, maybe sometime when you feel safer, I could call you Bucky again in private, if it feels right? I didn’t know you still thought of me with a nickname sometimes. You never say it now. You rarely said it then."  

“Flying Sam had many great pieces of advice and what he said about tomorrow will make it much easier. I’m no longer afraid I’ll have to leave the building because of things I was forced to do as the Winter Soldier.” Steve nodded. He and Tony had agreed, nobody blamed Barnes for his actions under HYDRA, not even Tony. “Flying Sam got two things wrong.”

“What were they?”

“The first is that I may still have to leave, for the last action I committed as Bucky Barnes.” Steve felt his chest lurch forward. What on earth had he done that he thought was so bad? “The second thing Flying Sam got wrong was the nickname. After tomorrow, after you know everything, I hope I’m still Bucky to you. There’s a cut-off line, like the rides at Coney Island. You must be at least 75 to call me Jimmy or Bucky.” He smiled a little. He made a move to get out of the closet.

“Bucky, can we put on pajamas? I could use some holding together tonight, if you’re willing.”

Bucky turned off the shelf light in the closet. He looked at Steve in the dark. “Да. Да, моя маленькая звезда”

“What did that mean?”

Bucky replied, “It’s Russian for ‘yes, Steve.’”

They put on pajamas. Barnes registered that Steve had ripped apart his entire room looking for knives. He decided, as a kindness, to not tell him there were many, many more he didn’t know about. Including one taped into the inside of Steve’s closet. In a standard sleeping situation, assuming he was the Big Spoon (hee!) he would protect Steve’s body with his own, roll him onto the ground while reaching for the knife taped just above shoe level in the closet. He would then make sure Steve had enough time to orient himself, devise his own defense and by that time Barnes would be armed as well as behind the bed which provided a modicum of coverage for the three seconds it would take for him and Steve to fall into a typical two-soldier defense stance as well as having Jarvis alert the team.

Bucky thought for a second, then murmured “When you were so fragile, and sick and needed me, I thought of you as my, my…mine…” _I can’t say Stevie. I just can’t._ “When you became the most famous soldier in the U.S. Armed Forces, I sometimes still thought of you that way, because it was my tiny piece nobody else got to have. Everybody else was taking pictures of you leading the way, the man with the plan, Peggy in your compass and the media on your six the whole way. I, uh, had it in my head I had you first. You’re mine.” _My Stevie._ “So, there’s the pathetic reason. You’re cleared to ridicule me, Captain.”

“When you showed up in on Halloween, all I could keep saying was ‘my Bucky!’ so I think we’re good.”

Steve was wearing pajamas. Barnes had on the toast bottoms again but hadn’t gotten a shirt. Steve said, “Huh. I’m overdressed.” He tossed aside a T-shirt that they all had been given as a gift from the Swedish government, which Tony kept getting confused with the government of Iceland. They hadn’t ever been there. Honestly, if Tony wasn’t a genius he’d be a hopeless mess.

They crawled into bed with the lights out, and Barnes climbed behind Steve. Steve was a little surprised but didn’t say anything. After three minutes of silence he said “does it feel inferior on your bare skin to be held by a metal arm?”

“No. It’s yours, Bucky. I’m not afraid of it. It’s part of you. I’m nervous for you, anxious, I want this to be over, but you hold me together. All of you holds me together.” It was the last night they’d sleep not knowing who, or what, Bucky had fought against becoming. Bucky said “I played the U2 songs. Some of them I really liked.”

“Me, too. ‘One’ was a good song.”

“I want you to hear this one. It wasn’t on the list.”

It was a strange, nomadic song that wasn’t anything like the others on the list. The part he sang “There is a silence that comes to a house/Where no one can sleep/I guess it's the price of love/I know it's not cheap,” Steve felt it. The long nights, that were bad and he didn’t know why, they just _were_ and it was so unfair. Then “When I was all messed up and I heard opera in my head./Your love was a light bulb hanging over my bed. Baby, baby, baby, light my way…”

“You’re my lightbulb. I get flashbacks of being erased, and jobs I had to do, the first days I could not figure out why mission was now set to protect you. I heard this song and I like it because it’s not a happy song. There are lots of very good happy songs about people who are whole. People who are missing very big parts of themselves don’t feel they can love. Or are not lovable. There aren’t as many very good songs about loving when you’re not whole. Not physically. Emotionally. You don’t hear that many Top 40 love songs for people with disabilities, or mental illness, PTSD. WWII-era Soviet ex-assassin gay lovers are a niche subject for sure.” Their muscles relaxed into each other with laughter and the warmth of being so close. “Do you know what I do when I have a flashback about erasure and pain now?”

“No, Bucky. Tell me?”

Barnes whispered “I picture it’s you. If I’m all messed up and I hear opera in my head, you’re my secret light. Nobody else can see you are, but I can turn on the lightbulb over my head if I want to see everything in the light.  I hoped there was some way, somehow that you knew I’d never stop loving you. Before anyone else got you, you were mine.”

“There must have been, Bucky. We’re taking one big step. I’m not stupid enough to imagine there isn’t a lot we’ll need to deal with. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter how long it takes. I’m here. Before anyone else got you, you were mine.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For fun: if I can get up to 4500 hits by a week from today, 4/29, I'll drop the last two chapters together. No more suspense, everything will be resolved; including what happens as Steve and Bucky are finally being honest about their feelings.  
> The song referred to is U2's Ultraviolet Light, which can be heard here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mk-tdsonJlk


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rectangle for circle: an even trade. Was it a trade Barnes can live with for the rest of his days?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter there are memories of assaults that will be described in a mild to moderate amount of detail. Most of the detail will concern trying not to hurt someone.  
> ********

 

 

Barnes and Steve arrived at 8:55. Everything was set up the way they had discussed. He would be facing George whenever possible—he felt he owed the man that much. Esther was there and Eddie had very cleverly packed a Thermos of tea in case it was urgently required. George was wearing casual trousers and a dark blue linen shirt. He looked pale and frightened. Steve was glad he had someone on either side of him to shore him up if needed.

Tony and Dr. Banner were tinkering with probes, screens, speakers, backup lights and gear—the works. At 9:00, Tony turned around and said, “Well, this is the day we’ve been waiting for. There are three rules in my lab that cannot be broken. First, if I say leave, you leave. Immediately. It’s for your safety, my safety and the best way to make sure my machines don’t kill everybody in the building.” He got the nod. Nobody even questioned the last part? Whew. Tough crowd.

“Rule number two: Barnes knows some of this will be painful. He is the only one allowed to describe the pain and put parameters on the treatment.” He didn’t even try to hide his glare at Steve. Steve lightly brushed the back of Barnes’ right arm.

“Finally, I have a number of people scheduled to come in and out today. JARVIS will announce them and if it’s a good time for them to come in, we’ll say so. It’s a way to help boost morale while we’re doing such delicate work. Barnes and Cap, Bruce is going to disinfect you now. We know Barnes can work on the arm himself, and there’s no worry about introduction of bacteria until here.” Stark took a second to look at the arm and some images and used a pen to point. “I don’t know where this goes, hence the sterilization.

“Ms. Esther, George and Eddie, you have to stay near the couch. There’s a bathroom around that corner,” he pointed around back of the couch, “and there’s one last thing to say before we start. I haven’t had a chance to work with Barnes’ arm enough to know what we’ll uncover, when. Believe me, admitting I know less than everything hurts me more than it does you. Be prepared. Barnes? You ready?” Tony saw his infinitesimal nod.  “Okay. Let’s unto the breach, Heavy Metal.”

Steve whispered into Barnes’ ear they had to mention Barnes could take photos somehow, because if he did the wrong thing Bucky might get blinded. Reluctantly, Barnes agreed they’d inform him of the technology. Steve jumped in and gave Tony the run down on his camera. Tony frowned and said that meant they do more probing. He said his biggest thing was to alleviate the flashbacks, which in a perfect world also helped George, and they would do upkeep on the things Barnes had been doing for himself then probe into what needed to be done the most, that which hadn’t been touched in seven decades. It would be a very long day, no doubt, but if you had to have an egomaniacal, twisted superhero genius, you might as well have the best. Barnes had an unguarded moment of vulnerability and said, “You are.” There was something so naked about the statement Tony couldn’t do anything but clap him on the metal shoulder. No sap allowed in here. It ruined his bluster.

Tony started with a scan of the entire arm from the outside. Bite-Size scooted around to Barnes and held his leg for a second. Bite-Size did a small series of gestures and Barnes grinned. “No, he’s not currently seeing anyone, but he’s kinda attached to me. So I guess you could say left arm and I are in a long-term relationship.” As Tony finished first external scan, Bite-Size made one more beep and Barnes shook his head. “Nah, you can never blame a guy for trying, Bite-Size. You could find out if George’s foot is looking for companionship.”

It had worked. By injecting the right humor at the right time, they had started and Barnes hardly noticed.

Tony said “Barnes, you remember the first prelim scan we did that I saw how your arm was attached. I need to strip down to the undershirt for me now and we’re going to look at what happens in your brain when we trigger certain points.” Barnes removed his shirt, making the undershirt and brace visible.

“Whoa. Uh, WHAT? What is this? IN MY LAB, HELLO?”

“Tony, mission assist Eddie made this for me. Look!” He lifted his arm up and down, then side to side. Tony looked at it—the underside, the stitches, the framework. He felt the gel material and told Barnes to get it off and went to the edge of the sterilized area.

“You? You did this? With Stark tech?”

Eddie swallowed his tongue. He mumbled something about “pieces of other projects.” He gave a brief rundown of DaNeesha’s energy matrix that Tony had helped him with early that morning so long ago. Jess’ compression T’s, the gel fabric that kept Barton’s knives from getting detected. He looked up to see just how fired he was.

“Fuck me. Excuse me Esther, but fuck me. Fuck me sideways with a chainsaw. You took the conversation we had and did _this_ with it?”

“Bite-Size helped.”

“Mr. Miles, what are Eddie’s shop hours right now?”

Mr. Miles reflected. “It depends on workload, but essentially 9:00 to 4:00 Monday through Friday. Appointments at any time, plus missions as required.”

“No. From now on your hours are 9:00 until 3:55, then you’re in here from 4:00 until 6:30 every day, researching and developing wearable fabric tech like this. Mr. Miles is your boss downstairs, I’m your boss here. Tech for anybody, not just the Avengers. Uh, for now, you have unlimited material budget, I’ll get you an assistant from wherever assistants come from and an office, wherever those…Pepper? PEPPER?”

“Hey Tony, I hope things are going well.”

“Where do offices come from?"

“Well, Tony, when two contractors love each other very much…”

“Eddie has a thing. Needs an office near me. Talk later. Love you.”

He looked back down. “Some kind of money will happen. JARVIS, relay all of this to people who do things I say. We good? Good. Moving on. Barnes, we can see your brain. Tell us how you feel when certain places are triggered.”

Eddie looked at Mr. Miles. George had put a hand on his leg, and patted him several times. They were both smiling and George was barely able to pretend he wasn’t crying. Eddie gave him a big hug. He heard George say that he was proud of him. He was saying “thanks, dad” when unbearable screaming echoed through the room.

“Holy shit. JARVIS, let’s take the speakers down to a level that won’t shatter my delicate, lady-like eardrums. OK. Am I seeing anything?” They looked at the big monitor wired into Barnes’ equipment. Nothing, but then they could hear it again. It was a young girl screaming. Barnes was terrified but motionless. “Tin Man, can you remember what’s causing this sound? Bruce, anything?”

Bruce’s monitors showed significant activity in his brain, but mostly in the frontal lobe. Barnes was trying to solve something, his amygdala was lit up nearly as much as Dr. Banner was expecting. Suddenly Barnes said, “Where am I in all of this?” Steve pushed Barnes’ face to look directly at his own then said, “Do you mean now? Where you are now?”

Barnes knew Steve was being so gentle out of fear. Now wasn’t the time for a joke. “No. I know you. You’re Steve, and I’m Bucky.” The relief that washed over Rogers’ face was painful to watch. “I mean, where’s mission? I should hear myself doing this. I mean, why can’t I hear my own self in my head? Mission. Mission, what gives?”

 

Tony and Bruce frowned at each other for a second. Bruce said “Like, we all hear ourselves in our own head, what we say in our own brains?” Barnes looked at him. “No. There’s an actual voice. Mission voice. Do you not have briefing, mission briefing?”

He was shocked. They all shook their heads no. Barnes felt he must be saying it wrongly. “I know how everybody talks in their head, like when you talk to yourself about don’t forget to buy milk, don’t forget, don’t forget. Or you practice to ask out someone, you imagine how you’ll sound. Mission is different, mission you can’t ignore or forget. There’s something very wrong here if you can’t find my mission voice.” He thought of something. “Jarvis, can you reach Nat please?”

Nat picked up a second later. In Russian, Barnes explained what he meant by mission voice. She said in English and Russian she thought she understood the concept but had a theory that it was done differently in his head as he would be pulled out in different generations, used across many historical circumstances his creators couldn’t foresee, so maybe they made his a voice that was literal. Nat said she was aware of commands but a speaker didn’t play in her head every moment. Barnes remembered how very lonely and disoriented he could be without mission. Liberating too, though. He thanked her in Russian. Barnes gave everybody a faithful rendition of what Nat had said, that she certainly felt she was being given orders sometimes, but she didn’t feel an omnipresent voice. He also relayed her theory that this might have been something borne from the fact he’d be used only occasionally, or that he would outlive all of the original programmers. He didn’t feel a need to relay the last ten seconds of their conversation. If they cared to learn she had taken a second to obliquely ask how his маленькая звезда was doing, a term of endearment many Russians used literally meaning ‘little star’ then they could also take the time to learn he had replied that his little star was моя вселенная. His universe.

 

Tony and Bruce had come over to examine the left arm from top to bottom. They were using a scope that caught each detail and broadcast on the screen behind them. They already knew this could be something implanted more deeply in Barnes than they were willing to go this minute, but it didn’t hurt to look. Did mission control ever have a rudimentary input? Was it a way to at least hear missions before video was easy? Could it be accessed by the Winter Soldier? What types of things were put in it? Could a foreign operative erase or alter tape? Did it run all the time? This was so very important for getting Barnes’ history. They scanned his inner arm, around the outer arm, his forearm, the fingers—

“Oh, hell’s bells, gentlemen. It’s right there. Look at it.”

 

The entire room came to a shit-screeching halt and Esther stood up and walked to the edge of the sterile area. “There. Right there.” Everybody looked at her. Stared. Open-mouthed, full on disbelief. “THERE! Honestly, what do you men even do up here all day? Above Jimmy’s thumb, that circle right there, that’s a World-War-Two-era, standard-issue Soviet phone jack. You must have the male part around here somewhere. You’re looking for the 3.75 millimeter equivalent, a stereo to plug it in to, and I assume this Mr. Jarvis person can record what you hear.” There was no motion. Anywhere. “What part of phone operator for the Strategic Scientific Reserve didn’t you boys understand? Hop to it, gentlemen!”

Tony stood motionless for three seconds before saying “George, I’m sorry, but I’m going to need you to turn your head while I respectfully and passionately make love to your girlfriend.”

Esther looked Tony in the eye and said “That’s flattering Mr. Stark, but never send a boy to do a man’s job.” She winked at him and walked back to the couch.

“Permission to speak freely, Peacekeeping Officer Miles?

“Yes, Captain Rogers.”

“You want to get that one locked down tight, sir.”

“The thought very recently occurred to me as well, Captain Rogers.”

Bruce found what they needed and got in inserted into the jack. Through one of the stereo components in the lab, they got a voice that made Barnes nod instantly. Yes. This was the voice he had become used to hearing, which grew dimmer or stronger now based on, well, he didn’t understand why. They tried to find out where the screaming they heard was in sync with the voice Barnes heard. Suddenly, he had it. He knew what it was. He remembered the screaming. He remembered hitting her as hard as he could. Oh god, _oh no no no. He couldn’t come up with a better plan. He had tried, tried, no…_

He retched. Steve grabbed a bucket they had put there just in case, but Barnes had dry heaves for a second and then he cleared up. Barnes had tears in his eyes. Bruce looked at him and said “Barnes, when that particular memory happened, your brain showed very little anger. It showed you were trying very hard to problem solve. Do you know what we heard?”

“Yes. It was after I got the arm but before, I need a word. Before my erasure was complete. They hadn’t totally erased Bucky. I was commanded, Mission commanded…they brought me a girl. I don’t know where she came from. She was 13 or 14. I was left in a bunk with her, with some of the monsters watching me through a window. They wanted me to, to, to force myself on her. I didn’t speak anything but English and a few words of Russian and German from the war. I tried German and she nodded. I pointed to myself and ‘Bucky.’ She was crying. She said ‘Ingrid.’ I made a motion to my, my, fly. She cried harder. I whispered the only words I could think of in German _. Ich bin Freund_. But I knew the next part would hurt her so much, but I had to. They were watching. I…I hit her it the mouth as hard as I could. God, I hit that beautiful little girl but I didn’t know what else to do.”

Barnes was still leaning with the bucket. He looked at Steve. “You remember basic first aid, right? Head wounds bleed the most? So, I, uh, um, I sucked a lot of the blood into my mouth. And I lifted up her skirt, she began to fight me. I spat the blood all over, the most I could. I looked at her and whispered _Freund._ Jesus help me, I wanted to make it look real. So.” He pulled up a raggedy, painful breath of air. “So, I, got an erection. I kept wiping her face with my hands, like I wanted her to have to look at me. She could feel me. I smeared the blood from her mouth and, went down there several times. I made sure to bruise her legs, pulling them apart. She was screaming. The last time I said “Freund. Movies, Films.” I remembered the word was close. The word for film. Like, I was acting. I pressed my erection against her thigh. She screamed like, like, like…”

 

Steve held his hand softly and whispered “Barnes, you acted like you were raping her but you didn’t penetrate her, did you? She was screaming and help spreading the blood so it looked like an assault.”

Barnes nodded. “I tore her underwear down to make sure it had blood on it. I also bit the side of her thigh. I knew it would hurt but I hoped if I was brutal enough they would assume she had really been assaulted and, maybe, I don’t know how to say it. That her turn was over now.”

Bruce was nodding at his screen, but also at Bucky. “That makes complete sense. Your brain patterns recalled during that event are highly skewed towards problem-solving and using logical thinking to overcome adversity.”

Tony made some notes and picked up a different small probe, then started to trace where that output link had originated.

A few moments later, there were different voices. Then different screams. The Asset’s screams. On the screen that everyone except Barnes was facing, a kaleidoscope of images ran seconds at a time then broke into another without an obvious pattern. The screen was playing the output as recorded data but Bucky saw the images as though he was living them right now. Tony and Bruce worked hell-bent for leather, typing, touching, adjusting this and removing that while they tried to account for this event. Steve was at an angle to the screen but he could still see what was being transmitted. _A few seconds at a plaza, maybe a decade or so in the past. Mexican flag visible as people scattered screaming. Shots, one woman crawling, her long, coppery red hair tied in a bun that’s coming undone as a bodyguard falls on top of her. One quarter of a second black and white; blinking on faces looking down at him, three men and a woman. Frozen tundra, a look down at a compass then back up, scanning the horizon. Two little boys in He-Man pajamas, strafed by bullets about_ _chest high. Their mother, keening and staring in abject terror. Four seconds of Asset seeing his reflection in a ballet studio, laying on the floor as his metal arm gets purchase into the wood so he can crawl towards something off camera. Asset is bleeding from gunshots and has a broken leg. Eight seconds gazing at a man speaking German, seated in a bathhouse November of ’89. Beach; Asset’s right hand holding a pistol as he fires towards an unseen target. Three seconds of Asset vomiting on all fours before his head is ripped back to the unbuttoned fly of a man in unif--_

Barnes rolled out of the chair and onto the floor before Tony snapped off the sound as quickly as he could get the damn thing muted. “Barnes, I have an idea. We’ll instantly download the sounds we have, and I’ll have a multilingual expert tell us what we need to know in a few hours. I know an excellent woman just outside the DC beltway. She’s fluent in English, German, French, Russian, Polish, and Spanish. Her outfit does Japanese, Chinese, Korean and Thai plus they can cobble together Norwegian, Swedish and Danish if you give them a few minutes. Her name is Tina. The only agreement we have in writing is that she will never sell SI secrets, and I will never tell anyone where she is or what she really does in all those languages. She has never broken her end of the deal. The Fairfax Outfit is so concerned about security it once took me a sec to realize my own Pepper was talking to _me_. In French. I had no idea. JARVIS, is everything pertinent uploaded? Great, tell Tina I’ll pay full going rate plus speedy turn around. Is Washu still her partner? Same deal for her. Refresh my memory:do they need somebody to watch the kids?"

JARVIS computed. “Yes, last time you chose a private childminder that was very hardworking and patient with the children. His name was Mr. Lee.”

“Do it all now, please. Put me on with her when needed.”

********

 

“Barnes, I’d like to move on from that exact moment and see what else we can find that will work with us right now. I know we still have some memories we need to pursue, especially where George is concerned. Before we do that, a little bit of light mechanical work, yeah?”

He got a nod. Steve took his flesh arm and guided him back to the chair; in a second of eye contact, Cap tried to see whether or not Bucky still wanted this. It seemed he did. Rogers didn’t want to make a show of it, but as he guided him back he gave Bucky’s hand a light squeeze. If making this lighter, more functional and finally purging terrible secrets was what it was all about, then there was no way around. They had to go through it. Bucky had to go through it.

Tony said “we’re going to have a look at the inside here. Honestly, no clue how much this will hurt. You’re going to have to tell me.” He picked up an instrument and held it against a point just inside the wrist. Barnes shook his head. Then he moved up about three inches and pressed, then moved the arm side to side. Again, no reaction. He did it at the elbow. There Barnes’ face tightened up and he said, “That’s different from the other ones.”

Tony stopped. “Different how, exactly?”

“The other times were a sensation, but the arm is always going to hurt some. It doesn’t have a choice—yes, I know you disagree and I really hope you’re right. Anyway, in the elbow, it was sharper. More, it’s hard to find words for it. If I felt that while fighting someone it wouldn’t register. If I felt that while pouring milk on my cereal I’d be a little worried.”

Tony nodded. “That tells me something. Bruce, what lights up when I come at it from this area?”

“About what you’d expect from frontal parietal; I need to move my arm, so let’s move it. Everyone has experienced how that gets overwhelmed by adrenaline. It’s worth noting you have some interesting conditions in your coordination lobe, your cerebellum. Everything you do lights up something you...huh. That’s interesting. Would any of you mind if I conducted a quick experiment here, as long as we have everything set up?” Tony shrugged. This was all interesting to him. 

 

Bruce continued, “Eduardo, none of my equipment is sterile. Would you step around the sterilized area and come to me please? Now everybody else, don’t watch the monitors. I’ll record what I see but I don’t want biased feedback. OK. I’m going to put this sticky pad, it feels like cool gel, in four places. You ready? Eduardo, count to ten out loud. Good. Now, were you nervous when you asked Magdalena to marry you?” Eddie laughed. “Yeah, I can imagine. Take a second and remember how she looked, how you felt, the exact moment. Exactly what you said when you pulled out the ring. Good. Finally, before we—oh good god! George! George? Somebody!”

“NO” was all that happened before Eddie realized he had been tricked. He wasn’t the only one. Everybody had startled and began to lunge towards the couch. Poor George really did look like he was going to have a heart attack now. “No, I’m fine. I’m fine.” He himself looked like he was checking everything just to make sure. Esther shot Dr. Banner a sharp look. To be doing that, at George’s age—what was he thinking?

George was satisfied he was still in one piece. “Dr. Banner, what did we learn besides the fact I have better bladder control that I would have guessed?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Miles. I knew you were the one that would produce the strongest reaction in Eddie’s amygdala. Now, we don’t always know how fear relates to action in the amygdala—it’s an area of ongoing but slow research because a great deal of the time people are researching what makes them feel good, how we see, walk, talk, etc. For obvious reasons, I want to know why anger moves through me the way it does. So, now comes the comparison part. I have here a chart. This is what Eddie’s brain did but I won’t show it for a second. The fear level did what we thought it would, so did his planning for coordination and moving his body. We even saw him move his body until he saw George was OK. Uh, Mr. Miles.”

“You damn near gave me a heart attack Bruce, George will be just fine.” That gave everybody a second to take a deep breath, chuckle and keep things going. Then Banner switched screens to a blank one. “Tony, would you consent to a quick scan? No questions, nonverbal, if possible.” Tony shrugged while he sat down and Bruce put the sticky pads to monitor brain activity. Bruce typed instructions to JARVIS and had Tony face the screen. The first picture to appear was Tony standing with the actual Mr. Jarvis, little Tony in a pair of jeans with a red and white checked button down showing off a gold medal from a science fair. He remembered that. His dad couldn’t be there that day, so Mr. Jarvis had gone with him wearing casual pants and a sweater vest. So many people had come up to congratulate him on how clever his boy was he eventually quit correcting them and said, “Medal or no, he’s the most special boy in the world to me.” The second picture a newspaper clipping of him coming home from Afghanistan. His posture fell, like his chest couldn’t hold him up and more. The last one was a beautiful picture of Pepper. They were on vacation, she was wearing a sarong on the beach and looking back at him with such love, more than that. It was devotion. “Wow,” he said. All of them silently agreed. Wow.

Banner put up three scans in three windows on screens. There it was, the brains of the three men. Bruce started. “You can see how Eddie had no stress counting, a fair amount of anxiety recalling the proposal and then surge of fear, rage and the primal need to approach his father figure. This was what I expected from a non-enhanced man who is well socialized and has secure attachments to loved ones.

“Now, look at this one. Tony, I picked you next because you don’t fit the definition of a modified human in that your brain has not been permanently altered but you have experienced an outside source forcing you to do something you don’t want to do. The picture with Mr. Jarvis showed good activity here, and we get things in vocal recognition, love, pride, it wouldn’t surprise me at all that hearing JARVIS while you’re suited up is one of the things that keeps you grounded and focused. Afghanistan, sorry about that by the way, my warning you defeats the whole purpose, was to watch your fear and memory response. You cognitively know you’re safe here, and you reminded yourself quickly but there (he tapped an area with a lot of red in it) was your first response. Anger, fear, kill them, etc. Is that right?”

Tony nodded. He also felt like crawling into a hole forever, but that wasn’t productive. He once found Pepper, right after her fall, in the corner of her walk-in closet sitting in a chair. He asked if she was okay, and the answer he got, “Can I ever be okay again, Tony?” made him pick a chair in his office and beat it through the wall until there was no more chair left. Or wall. He left it that way for three days. He needed something in his life that looked as angry and ugly as he felt. It was a monument to his inadequacy.

“Esther, gentlemen, look at this.” Barnes’ brain map showed up. “Oh,” was all anybody could say, and that was from Barnes himself. Galloping Gorbachevs. He was bright red in the frontal lobe, anticipating what to do in any form of attack. His fear center was bright red, as was his parietal lobe, meaning at any moment his body awareness sensed more fear than usual he’d be equipped to take charge. Dr. Banner went through the visit this morning about ten times the normal speed. Red reduced slightly when he had contact with Bite-Size, rose to nearly impossible levels when describing the encounter with the girl, and then more red shifted to the temporal until his entire mind was nothing but blood red. Fucking Soviet, blood-drenched red.

After he had gotten up his brain looked far angrier than the others but many areas returned to green and blue; in that part his brain almost looked like Eddie’s when Eddie was counting to ten. Banner let that sink in. “There’s a school of thought that you take what you know will relax the patient and we gently wiggle our way into the traumas. You speak about traumatic injuries as they come up with a non-judgmental person like the guy you call Flying Sam. Others say you must follow a strict protocol working at the deepest level of the brain to pull apart these worst feelings. That would be hell while it happens, but your subsequent mental health care would see results more quickly because you have acknowledged all of the underlying factors. Barnes, which do you care for?”

“I want to do the deepest first. I need to tell Mr. Miles what I know. Do we know what made my brain flood blue that so I could function better?”

“Yeah, we do. Tony, would now be a good a time to get DaNeesha in with sandwiches and so forth?”

“Hell yes! JARVIS, please tell DaNeesha it’s her time to shine.” Ten minutes later she was there, with a giant box of organic roast beef, chicken or eggplant panini, kettle chips done fresh that hour, cookies, muffins, granola bars, fizzy water, fresh fruit smoothie (put in a plastic cup with straw then carefully taken over to Cap) a bottle of Coke with lid for Eddie, and a special sandwich marked, in tiny letters, _for Georgie_. A roast beef and tomato without all the fuss. My goodness, he thought, what have I done to deserve such terrific friends? He winked back at her.

As everybody was picking out what they wanted for lunch, those in the non-sterile area would throw things to the sterile area far away from Barnes and people did their best to not introduce unnecessary germs. Bruce pulled Steve and Bucky away for a moment’s chat.

“Uh, look guys, it’s absolutely none of my business, it’s none of anybody’s business what people may or may not do or feel, or think. And, well, I certainly think that it’s nobody’s business if two people aren’t really sure themselves what they’ve got, or might have, you can see I’m in a similar situation myself and, uh, I think it’s easier to show us, although maybe it wouldn’t be, but it’s not for—

“Oh my god, Bruce, please just say it already!” Cap muttered as he slung his arm around the back of Bucky’s surgical recliner.

Banner turned the monitor and that was all he needed to do. It was perfectly clear: when Steve touched or spoke to Bucky, the anger response receded and the brain lit up in different areas. Hearing and facial recognition in the frontal lobe. A serene blue flooded occipital. His whole brain relaxed a little. Steve was Bucky’s personal valium. Steve looked at the floor. “Bruce,” Barnes hesitated, “does everybody know?”

Bruce was kind enough to not laugh. He said “I’ll only remark that we’ve been happy for you longer than the both of you knew you should be happy for you. Fair enough?”

The men looked up again. It should make facing whatever they knew after today come easier.

Everybody had lunch, DaNeesha took a second to fill everybody in on some building gossip, including the fact that it was now confirmed Thor and Jane were most definitely back on, full-time, and the Daily News had a new set of pictures showing the previously gossiped-about Ms. Vivian Vine now walking hand in hand with one Mr. Moore, who was apparently a very popular TV star on an FBI show that made DaNeesha fake-faint even thinking about. Mr. Moore had quit the show and was looking to do a play on Broadway so he could spend more time with the obviously irresistible nurse. Eddie said he can’t find anything in his apartment anymore because it’s all buried under bridal magazines, and Pepper stuck her head in at just the right time to say, “Now there’s an idea!” and Tony had to work to get his heart started again while everybody else laughed themselves stupid and said “oooooooooh.” Esther reported that Ollie and Ella were making a few little adjustments around Ollie’s place that were definitely of a wheelchair accommodation variety, which got another round of “oooooohs” from everybody. When it seemed like everybody had relaxed and aired out their heads a little, DaNeesha cleared everything away and they got back down to business.

Stark looked at Barnes. He said “Here’s what I think is the most productive. I know that your arm needs adjustments, and you should be asleep for that. We can’t do that until we uncover whatever it is that connects you to George. If I enhance or replace something that had a wire crossing over to the memories about George’s father, they’d be gone except for the recording we have. Can I start doing what we need to do why’ll you’re still awake? Do you want to do that now?”

“Yes, Tony. George, if you’re ready.”

“Please tell me how I can help, Barnes.”

“Just let me talk as we go through the history.”

JARVIS came on. “Tina has four relevant pieces that she believes timecodes to about when Mr. Barnes would have been receiving his arm, which we know is the time we get flashes of language that say “George” or “Jerzy.”  The first one seems to be taken from another soldier’s recorded feed and put into the system as part of the Winter Soldier’s permanent record. The other three are his own feed, although his arm wouldn’t have been fully functional for some time. Barnes, if my belief about your memory circuits shorting out through your arm are true, then when I’m trying to adjust certain things and make them better in the arm, it’s going to get much worse for you. Your brain won’t know the difference between my artificial stimulation and the real thing. I’m sincerely sad about this, but I believe you’re about to feel exactly like you’re there. Are you ready to hear them?”

Barnes nodded. “One at a time. Chronological order, please.” He heard Steve move back. He needed him to be away so he could really remember. His brain was going to flood red. He had to do it. Steve would be there when it was all over. He waited, and over the speaker he heard Russian. He closed his eyes tight. For those who did not speak Russian, a transcript was coming across the screen in the room. He remembered the pain. He didn’t have his arm. He thought he was going to die.

“They seriously want Stumpy for a soldier?”

“I do what they fucking tell me. He gets delivered alive. Those are the orders.”

“Did they say what shape he had to be in?”

“Nope.”

The room was filled with sound of Barnes screaming. Tony turned it down, knowing Tina would not having included it unless it was crucial. Barnes had his eyes shut tight and he was squirming. He kept holding his shoulder like there was no left arm there. His hand suddenly went to the back of his neck. Barnes went pale and then brought his hand away and wiped in on his clothes, even though nobody could see the blood they felt it was shocking just the same. Esther felt faint and went to the bathroom. Tony turned up the speaker again. There was silence, and then scraping footsteps.

In Russian, Barnes heard “can you understand me?” In real time, he felt himself shake his head no. It was like he was really there. He was there, talking to him. Another language, he didn’t recognize. “You don’t look Polish.” Shake again. “English?”

“Yes.” He looked up. There he was. He could see him. He was so much like his son. He’d never know that. In English. “Must be faster. They come soon. Lay.” He felt it in his shoulder. That was it! He remembered this! Sharp point pull. Sharp point pull. Pull. Pull. Knot. When he had the flashback. He said it out loud.

“They’ll be back soon. He walked quietly. Jerzy. He had needle and regular thread. It hurt so much. Sharp point pull. Sharp point pull. He sewed together the worst of the flesh wound from my neck to my shoulder so I wouldn’t die of blood loss.”

George was crying on the sofa, leaning against Eddie’s shoulder. He knew the voice the instant he heard it. It was Papa. Somehow Papa had survived the camps only to end up in a Russian forced labor facility. _Papa. How could anybody’s life be so cruel?_ Esther had come back. She was stroking the back of George’s head.

Barnes said, “Play the next one.” His own heart beating. Tell them while he feels it. Beating. Get out. Must escape. Get out. Get out. Out. A horrible crash as he’s tackled from behind. He’s in the tailor’s suite. Of course, he knows that now. His head is bleeding, his chin, part of a tooth, Jerzy. He sees Jerzy. He’s bent over, wiping up blood. What came off? WHAT CAME OFF? In very quiet English he hears, “You be returned in one week for uniform. They are safe with me. I promise.”

Barnes sits upright. He looks around him wildly. He can see Tony, and George, and Steve, Steve! Steve! He sees Steve, right next to him, holding his hand. He can hear him saying “what, Bucky? What is it? I’m right here. Tell me.” Barnes looks at him, exhausted, thankful. So, thankful. Steve will get it. “Rectangle for circle, even trade, rectangle. Rectangle.” He pats Steve at the neck. Steve looks at him. “Tags? Bucky? Your dog tags?” He nods yes. Yes. The rectangles. His tags. He’s exhausted. He turns to Tony. “Jerzy saved my dog tags. Play the next one.”

Sound of scraping. Horrible pain. Flashing lights. Screams. His screams. Erasure. He cries. _Please don’t erase me. Please don’t erase me. Don’t erase Stevie. Don’t._ He’s not sure if he’s saying it or thinking it. Lights. Feels stitches. His hair is short. Still feels like one arm. First time. He hears himself, from 70 years ago. “Don’t erase Stevie.” The arm. The arm is going on.

He’s oddly aware of a wailing sound and the word no. Maybe his own. Disruption. Doesn’t matter. Arm anchored into body. Pushing and pulling with blood. In the real world, Dr. Banner’s voice floats in very softly, with concern. If it’s too real, there are words then the other man in real time touching wires differently. Describe it then they can hear the Russians. Sink back into chair.

Horrible pain. Left arm. Horrible pain. Nerves tested and corrected. They decide one night of a painkiller would be good to allow asset to regenerate cells instead of devoting resources to pain. Approved. He can smell a wonderful scent. Yes, yes he thinks. Near his neck. More. That was in real time. Bring back the smell. He asks. The smell is home. No more arm hurting, pleasure and pressure and this time the smell and the pressure are fainter. He’ll hold on to it. One whole night of no pain. Bliss.

There was a pause, time has passed. Unsure how much, then he heard in Russian, a woman this time, how odd that he could understand now what was impossible before, “to the tailor’s for fitting the uniform.” They walk in. Five tailors. He sees they are making pants. They have black pants for him. Try on. Pins. Soldiers get bored, wait outside. Jerzy points to himself. “Jerzy Szymański.” He points again. “Jerzy.” He points to him “James.” Bucky nods. James gets the point across. “Trade, Jerzy helps James, James helps Jerzy.” He remembers nodding. “Jerzy dead soon. Understand? Dead soon.” More nodding. “They kill Jerzy.”

“The Russians will kill you?”

“The Russians kill everyone who knows about James.”

“What is the trade?”

“I sew into you. You never forget you are James. You kill me fast, no pain. Then take circle. Use circle with writing. Rectangle for circle, even trade.”

“Where will the circle be?”

“My pants.”

“Rectangle for circle, even trade. Roger that, Jerzy.”

“Roger?”

“Just another guy as fucked as we are. Forget about it. I want you—you, Jerzy, you use needle. You scratch words on my tag. Write on my tag.”

“Yes. Easy. Write what?” There’s a sound of pencil.

“This.”

They can hear boots. Barnes hears now “Break it off with the blowjobs over there and fucking get to work.” Barnes leaves a tiny piece of paper with the note. He walks over and hears himself say, in English, “What’s it like to go through life without a single dick in your entire army?” then the door shuts, and he hears himself screaming again. He hears himself in real time say, “Guess one of ’em spoke some English. That was your dad, George, You look so much like him—d’you know that?”

He heard George, with some real effort in his voice, say “I didn’t know Papa could speak English. Both of you had some real guts, I can tell you that. But what was the circle?”

“Dunno. Don’t remember. But I said it. All of it. I promise I made every sound. Every single sound.”

“When, Barnes? What sounds?”

“Play the last one.”

This last clip has some sound, but intermittent flashes of primitive video light up the screen. The last moments in the sewing room flash by like a black and white program from a channel the antennae can’t quite receive.

He hears himself walking in. He’s really having to focus to stay James. To be Bucky. He’s almost gone. It’s easier to see Jerzy as the expendable cog he is. Jerzy can see it, too. He says “Rectangle for circle, even trade.” The Winter Soldier nods. Jerzy cuts him open with a razorblade. He hears himself breathing raggedly. As his needle moves quickly Jerzy says “last thing James ever wanted to say, in there. Can’t be detected in metal. You owe me circle and paper.” There’s a sound of moving into the hall, the other exit of the tailoring suite. He sees it in his hand. Sharp. Perfect for his purpose.

Jerzy kneels. He does it. Jerzy falls to the floor. The circle is pinned in Jerzy’s pants. Circle. Words in English writing. He says them all, but he doesn’t know what they mean. He removes the seam ripper from the base of Jerzy’s skull and throws it away. James is dead. Now he has killed. The Asset walks back through the tailoring suite.

That was it.

That was all of the recording.

Time passes. No more touching in the arm. New York. Now.

He finally realizes where he is, what’s happening, he hears sobbing _. Oh, shit_. How bad had it been? Everyone looked traumatized. Shocked. Then, he can hear Esther. Esther, crying. Esther, coming up and telling Tony “you can re-sterilize him when I’m done, young man.” She pulled up the stool so she’s even with his face, her hands came to his head and…softly stroked his hair. Softly, gently, like his mother might have done, if. If another life.

“Jimmy, you don’t know what you did, do you?”

“I killed George’s father. I’m sorry. I’ll never be able to tell you how sorry I am.” She still held him. Comforted him. How could he ever look at George again? He was a tailor, and he had recognized the tool. George could never forget or forgive him.

“Jimmy, you made the trade, rectangle for circle, didn’t you? But you don’t remember what the circle was?”

“No idea. I can’t see it. There was paper, and words on the paper. I know I said them all. It was very important to say them all. After that, no idea.”

“Jimmy, think back. Think with me. You used the seam ripper, didn’t you, Jimmy? You used it at the base of Jerzy’s brain, didn’t you? Yes, love, you knew it was the most painless way to kill him. He didn’t even suffer a second, did he?”

“No. No suffering. He was mission assist. He asked for a painless release from the Russians and I complied. Then I found the words wrapped in the circle of cloth which…oh.” He looked at Esther. She was smiling at him, and they did it at the same time. They mimed putting the circle of cloth on his head. A makeshift yarmulke. He remembered now. Rectangle for circle.

“Jimmy, when a Jewish person dies, in an ideal world ten Jewish men come to say _kaddish_ but there is a version of the mourner’s prayer which can be said by one person, Jew or gentile. He wrote out the sounds for you to say. You said the prayer his soul needed. You did the greatest thing you could possibly do for him, Jimmy. You let him die painlessly knowing the prayer would be said for him. It would not be forgotten that Jerzy was an observant Jewish man.”

George looked at Barnes. He looked at him, eyes swollen, and in a raspy but steady voice declared, “My boy, I’m so very sorry you’ve had to carry that memory this whole time. Were you afraid I would blame you?” Barnes nodded. “Never. Never, ever Jimmy, you gave my Papa a painless death. That is more than anyone could ever repay, my boy. But I think I can try. At least a little. I know where your dog tags are.”

Tony looked like his world was ending. “Well, you might as well come up here and get them because every germ on God’s green earth has trampled through here in the last five minutes!”

“Oh good, Tony. I was hoping you’d see it my way.” George got up and gently pointed to the scar at Barnes’ scapula. "See that? Classic tailoring stitch, that two-inch lockstitch. I’d bet my life my father cut you open there and inserted your tag underneath the metal, so a scan wouldn’t reveal the extra material.”

“OK! Now I do actually demand a modicum of sterility. You, adorable old people, off my platform. Shoo! We need to do all of this sterilizing, and somebody tell Steve he can be here for this part if he stops vomiting…”

Barnes’ heart went cold. “He wasn’t here?”

“Oh, Rogers was here. He didn’t miss a thing. It won’t be forgotten, I promise you that. As an added bonus, he’s been ‘lightly sedated’ so enjoy that. SOMEBODY BRING HEAVE ROGERS BACK IN HERE?”

Steve came back into view, with Flying Sam at one shoulder saying, “See? All okay.” Barnes risked a quick look. Steve looked…holy shit. What had they done to Steve? He was red, extremely puffy, and looked like the happiest man on earth.

“Flying Sam, does the government know tranquilizers exist that work on superhumans?”

“They know what I tell them, Barnes. You okay, my man?”

“About to be, yeah.”

“You did the hardest part, Barnes. You’ll need some time but you’re a rockstar.”

“Thanks, Flying Sam.”

Steve walked up, looked at Tony for a few confused seconds, and then announced “if you were a woman I’d call you Iron Maiden.” He walked up to Barnes and pressed his arms around his head and said “please, please tell me you’re still Bucky. I can’t handle life anymore if you’re not Bucky.”

“I am. And you’re stoned, and we will talk a lot about this when you don’t smell like vomit but I promise. I’m Bucky.”

Steve looked him in one of his four or five eyes and said, “Prove it.”

Bucky looked back at him. “You were always a punk, you have terrible taste in khaki pants, and I still want a pony for Christmas.”

Tony said “HEARTWARMING. Go home, Sap’tain, you’re drunk. Does ANYBODY remember these are my toys? Here’s how this will work. I’m going to sterilize the living shit out of this area because that’s what sterilization is, boys and girls, it is making living things dead. Do the maintenance we discussed, Barnes, getting a few lighter pieces in there without compromising nerve function or feeling. You’ll get lubed up, we’ll make sure we don’t mess with your vision, get you a few light-weight components to reduce overall tearing and internal damage. I’ll dig out your tags because I’d bet dollars to donuts George is right, and the next time you see any of us, you’ll be relaxing in your living room, with Steve hovering over you like a wife from a 50’s sitcom. Deal?”

“Thanks.”

“I’m just in it for the billions of dollars. Nighty night, Tin Man.”

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was the last thing Bucky ever had to say to Steve...and what does it mean now?

 

Bucky opened an eye. And the other one. Oof. No, thank you. He tried again a bit later. It wasn’t great. Things hurt. Where was Steve? Was he—

“Hey. There you are. How do you feel, Bucky?”

“Pain levels elevated.”

“OK. We have some pills for that. Hold on, let’s get you a few crackers so you don’t throw them up. How much do you remember?”

“Did I have surgery yesterday? Did I tell George what he needed to know?”

“Yes, it all came out. You remember saying the Jewish prayer for him? The circle was the yarmulke you put on. Esther and George went home together last night; he’ll be okay, too. Here. Eat these and take some water for the pills.”

“What else happened?”

“Tony said the team from Fairfax, Tina and her team, translated a bunch of recordings about the creation of the Wint—uh, you. The Winter Soldier. It had something to with concentration camps and I’m sure Tony will get to it whenever he gets to it. It’s shady and there may be some Stark closets nobody wants to open. DaNeesha left you this.” There was a bag with a few things in it.

Bucky pulled out the big yellow box to make Rabbit coffee. Thanks, mission assist DaNeesha. He got a brace from Eddie that was adjustable so as he was swelling it resized itself. Double thanks, mission assist Eddie. In fact, “Building? Would you tell Eddie he’s magnificent mission assist?”

“Of course. It’s good to hear from you again, Barnes.”

“You too, mission assist Building.”

The rumors of a whole new Stark division of technical clothing were spreading like wildfire. Eddie already had the look of a man who had absolutely no idea how deep this end of the pool was. He also looked intensely happy. The comment from Barnes felt great. He’d go see him soon. When he had a second. Which might be next year.

Bucky took some pills. In about 15 minutes, life became a little more livable. He looked at Steve with one eye closed, then the other.

“Are your eyes bothering you, Buck?”

“Nope. Left Cap, Right Cap! Left Cap, Right Cap!”

Steve threw a gauze pad at him and deliberately missed him by a mile.

********

Tony grimaced at the screen, where he was looking at Tina through a secure connection. “You’re sure?”

“Well, I’m not going to bet the kids’ lives on it, Tony, but I brought it to you. That’s how sure I am. I can tell you with absolute certainty that the woman who was present for three of the essential design meetings, and the attachment of Barnes’ arm, was speaking Russian that she picked up very quickly. No more than three years for native—and I mean native—fluency, Tony. You knew there was a lot more going on here or our extra-cool set of skills wouldn’t have helped you. You don’t use us unless you’re 98% certain you know the answer isn’t about translating the words themselves. Wanna tell me why?”

“No,” Tony mumbled through his hand as her looked through his screen.

“After we had that confirmed, Washu called in the rest of the team and everybody is doing their thing. Washu says she pins it down to a Krakow education, but probably not born in that area. Certain phrases she hears that makes her think born in Warsaw. Geoff ran all of it through his computers and narrowed it down to a couple of hundred women, all sent to different camps, all handwritten Nazi notes to go through and I’m the only one that translates German shorthand, so you have to give me through tomorrow. Ben flew out this morning. Kim did whatever he did. They’re going to try Moscow first and work backwards, but 70 years is a long time. Plus, they decided to do the entire thing deep cover because North Korea still has a hit out on Kim and we can’t guarantee Putin’s people won’t recognize Ben from the Crimea incident.”

Tony cocked an eyebrow. “That was you? Damn, how could you not tell me that was you? I thought we were friends.”

“We are. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

“Whaddaya mean, ‘Kim did whatever he did’? How much of a handle do you have on this guy?”

“None. None at all. Sometimes he’s here, then he leaves, things happen, and repeat. I don’t even get in touch with him. He just knows when he knows.”

“And you’re cool running the Outfit like that?”

“He says something about ‘a leaf on the wind,’ whatever the hell that refers to. Anyway, I just have one more thing to ruin your day then I’m done.”

“Oh, I can hardly wait.”

“Tony, I think you have a problem you didn’t know you had, and now it’s so entrenched you’re going to have trouble pulling apart what’s relevant and what’s not.”

“So, my everyday life. Hit me with your best shot.”

“I think it’s possible you’ve unknowingly had a mole wandering all over SI for three years, and if my guess is correct she isn’t even aware she’s doing it. Do you know this woman?” A picture popped up on his screen. Nah, this was a fuck up and he told her so. “She’s been here forever and doesn’t have access to anything even remotely interesting.”

“She’s due to complete her three years as a PA soon, then she chooses a division. Do you know this Ms. Massey, DaNeesha Massey, has been having at least one surgery every year, sometime more, to remove ovarian cysts and fibroids from her uterus?”

“No, frankly I didn’t and that’s too bad, but the PAs aren’t my problem. Are you saying she’s had something planted inside her that JARVIS isn’t catching?”

“I’m saying I did my standard check of every voice that was in your suite yesterday while running your secure material. Geoff came around the corner, said he recognized that voice, and he went back through several other assignments trying to figure out where from. We should discuss her. Soon.”

“I transferred your standard million into the account; let me know if it’s not enough. There’s something about the way this fits together…it’s sticking in my teeth. It’s a small damn thing but I can’t think about anything else. Why can’t anything ever just be what it is, Tina?”

“Dunno, Tony. Tina isn’t even my real name. Thanks for sending Stan to watch the kids—he’s awesome.”

“Anytime, not-Tina.”

********

 

It was a full-on eating, drinking, get-sloppy-and-stupid party at Steve and Bucky’s three days later. Everybody was there to watch a show they all loved, about a Los Angeles crime squad led by a woman. Everybody in there secretly thought the others had an alter ego in the show. Steve was the fussy camera operator, Barnes was the angry cop that wanted to smash heads because his life has been stolen from him when his wife died, and Tony was definitely the “lightly tanned, always wearing the perfect thing Californian dandy” dating the boss. Maria was the computer-savvy detective, always slightly in the background but giving you the info you needed in a second. Flying Sam was the psych that tricked the adopted son into talking by playing chess. Eddie was the adopted son, Mr. Miles was the timeworn detective who knew all the tricks. Bruce was the coroner that would talk to you when he had results, otherwise fuck off out of his lab because he was busy. Thor was the FBI prettyboy left over from another series. Nat was the gorgeous, street-smart detective. Clint was the undercover narc operative that slipped in and out of cases and dated the gorgeous detective in secret. Pepper was the boss. Not even a question.

What they were really waiting for was the new SWAN ad, which had been shot in a black-box room and had Steve saying some things about being a proud veteran of the United States Army and him in uniform in 1944, then there were women talking about how SWAN had helped them. It ended with Steve in uniform saying “Real men serve their country and its soldiers with honor and respect. As the United States Armed Forces, we are one.” There was some pretty, swelling music and the slogan “We Are One” at the end. Big round of applause. Steve thought it said something that every single major network had agreed to run it free of charge for a month. After that, it would have to be paid for; that wasn’t a problem. Knowing billionaires is so handy. It came out well, all things considered. He hoped more women would get help. And, he amended, more men.

Everybody was in good shape. The tailoring suite was going gangbusters for Christmas orders. Flying Sam said the holidays are a rough time of year, but meeting attendance was up. Pepper and Tony were having a terrible time with some dumb tabloid following them and labeling them PepperOny. Nat and Clint were quiet. She wasn’t wearing her necklace but nobody mentioned it. Eddie and Magdalena were trying to have the wedding they wanted, balanced with the wedding her mother wanted. She wanted to invite everybody up to and including her elementary school teachers. _From Puerto Rico_. George and Esther had hinted there may be fun holiday surprises in store…everybody was hoping George had taken the advice to lock her down, and they’d all soon see.

After everybody left, Steve was only mildly fussing around Bucky’s left arm, which was immobilized another four days before physical therapy started. They had both seen the physical therapist. He looked very much like Channing Tatum. This was a new complication. It was unwelcome. Which was funny, because like any bad movie if they had talked about it for ten seconds they’d know it was unwelcomed by both of them.

The next night, Steve went into his bathroom and tried to do something less…ugh. Soldier-ish with his hair. The day before the surgery he had asked Eddie if he could get a nice, casual shirt. Not a T-shirt, not for anything or anybody special, in-between. Eddie nodded. A good tailor owes his clients a certain amount of discretion, just as Mr. Miles had taught him. So he didn’t mention he was picking out designs he knew Bucky would like. Steve went with a tan pullover with a few subtle military stylings around the neck and chest. It could be ready in two days. That was great.

He went for a fitting while Lidia and Esther had brought mission assist cat Eleanor for a therapeutic pet visit. They made plans to bring a Shabbat there for the week. Esther was observant, but not to the degree where she would refuse a ride home. Some Jewish people wouldn’t ride in a car after Sabbath had started, but she was relaxed about things like that. She was teaching George some of what he had missed about being Jewish. Nobody saw any reason he couldn’t be both. Mr. Miles pulled Rogers to a quiet corner and asked Steve if the extra bodyguards had been because Barnes might get him confused with his father. Rogers shook his head and said “it was all such a mess. I needed to do something, and giving that order seemed sensible since I didn’t know how the sewing equipment played into all of it.”

Eddie nodded. “I stuck the seam ripper in the pages of a bridal etiquette book. No man alive would touch one of those.” The three men smiled and had a quick laugh. They agreed George wasn’t ever in authentic trouble. There are silly things people of action do when they must do something because doing nothing feels like tightening a noose around your neck.

The next day DaNeesha came with the tailor’s box for Steve. She gently kissed Barnes’ forehead and said “From what I heard, you have literally met the devil and kicked him in the balls. Feel better soon, yeah?” Her voice dropped to a quiet tone even though it was useless because serum. “I know you like your Rabbit coffee, but pumpkin spiced lattes are gonna rock your world like, Rabbit coffee _who_? Just, trust me. I can’t, there’s no point in explaining. I’m sure Captain Health Nut wouldn’t approve but You. Will. Freak. In a good way. Can I bring you one in two days, Prince Arming?”

Barnes recognized the new nickname as a form of friendship. He had done it with a few close people; this felt good. “I’m counting on it, Ms. Sassy Massey.” DaNeesha picked up her jaw and said “Well, look at you, kung fu! I’m telling you, in another two weeks, we’ll have you back to flipping off hotel terrorists!” She winked and floated out the door, muttering to herself as she went. Barnes had heard she was one of the people who wore Eddie’s modified clothing. It was the prototype for the webbing and gel in his shoulder brace. The same way Flying Sam had to be inherently at peace with human nature, both good and bad, there is something people who have known long term, excruciating pain can recognize in others who have been through it. He noticed she talked to herself sometimes, maybe a little pep talk to keep on keepin’ on. He hoped whatever it was she didn’t suffer anymore.

Neither of them noticed Captain Health Nut deliberately said nothing because he trusted DaNeesha. She was a good friend to Bucky. In a way he couldn’t put a finger on, there was a sameness about them. Maybe every once in a while he should orchestrate them hiding from him to drink exceedingly unhealthy caffeinated beverages full of sugar and fat.

The day passed, Steve reading SWAN literature about the current situation with Americans who were assaulted being flat out being told it was pointless to report. Bucky could tell Steve was MAD-mad because his ears were red, he paced a lot, and spewed out statistics. Barnes even made him do 100 pushups to relieve some stress because Steve kept starting sentences and then ending them by throwing his arms in the air and going “AAAAGGGHHHH.” Incidentally, watching Steve Rogers do 100 pushups was enjoyable, especially since the shirt got in the way after 50 so he tossed it off.

He wondered if this new passion was because Barnes might need less taking-care-of. That would be fine. In a couple of weeks, he thought with a new feeling inside. In baking there were bittersweet chocolate chips. Those, but inside the part of you that feels about people.

“How do you feel, Buck?”

“Pretty good. Peanut butter cookie supply dangerously low. I bet Esther could be talked into helping. She only asks what she can do every other day.”

“Good idea. We could have the Olds over for movie night. We all missed “Pretty Woman” somehow. So, uh, you feel up to some get-well presents?” He held the box and the envelope up so Barnes could see. He stared at it a second. The envelope that contained the dog tags. As soon as Tony had removed them from his arm (George was right; they were wedged behind the tailor’s stitches into the structure so a metal detector or scan never caught them) he had dropped them in saline. They were given a quick once-over by the lab, who were told this was a private, Top Secret communication and therefore not to be spoken about to anyone. That standard SI protocol guaranteed every person in Avengers Tower knew what the tags said within an hour of their removal. Most people didn’t fully get it, but the fact it was Bucky Barnes’ last ever thought to Cap made it pretty romantic all on its own. Jarvis quietly noted a surprising uptick in the number of young people ordering engraved dog tags for loved ones this holiday season.

The box, of course, was the delivery of Steve’s shirt. He’d had them make something for Bucky, too. Black and soft that wouldn’t scratch across his scars. When Buck was ready, they could go out for a bit. Not long. Maybe eat dinner out. He smiled at the thought. Going _out_ out. Going out on a date with his best guy.

Barnes had to sleep upright in the chair for three more nights. He hated it because sleeping upright isn’t comfortable. He thought about all the nights he had slept on cold concrete naked, bleeding, in terrible pain. On frozen tundra with a sniper’s rifle glued to one eye. Horrible heat with bugs crawling on him for hours until target was acquired. Because of the memory wiping, he didn’t remember these as fully as he could have, but he retained enough of the idea to know he must have gotten pretty damn soft in his expensive high-rise apartment with computerized butler and food on demand.

Upright he could live with. Now that he was more alert, it bothered him to wake up alone every day. Steve would get his run out of the way at dawn, because, UGH. Always and eternally, _Steve._

“Yeah, let’s do it. Give me a minute.”

He waited until they were getting pajamas on, then while he was in the bathroom he decided to put a hot towel on his face and shave, too. He had passed attractive stubble and crossed into “guy who wanders through bus station at four in the morning.” He shaved, gave himself a quick washcloth wipe-down and felt pretty human for someone who was a cyborg. He came out and saw Steve was arranging his chair. He said “Hold up. I have an idea, if you don’t mind a kink in your neck and numb legs.”

“Jimmy Barnes, I’m not that kind of boy!”

Barnes couldn’t help himself. He was headed for a “come sleep close to me” vibe but now it was silly, and he was laughing, and his stupid shoulder really hurt. Ouch. OK, hurt like it meant it.

“Whoa, what happened?”  
“Nothing. I was going to suggest you could pull my chair parallel to the couch so my right arm could touch your left arm. Then the thought got lost because it started to hurt a lot.”

“It’s still a good idea. Plus, you have get-well presents to open. Come on over. We’ll get you settled in and get crackers and meds.” Steve came back with the box, bottle of pills, crackers and a glass of water. Barnes looked at the bottle of medicine. Medicine so you didn’t have to feel pain was one of the world’s greatest inventions.

First, Steve set the box in front of him. Bucky opened it, and loved the black shirt. It was soft, but not sloppy. Soft in a way that made him feel dashing. He said it would be his Dread Pirate Bucky shirt. He said he was rather interested in seeing the sweater with the slight military detailing on Steve as well. There were quite a few things he’d like to say to his commanding officer that were no longer a court-martial offense. There was one more thing at the box’s bottom, but Steve said he had a feeling that would be a gift to both of them they should do last.

Bucky nodded at the envelope. Steve sat on the couch, right next to the chair, and ripped it open. For a second, the men could only stare at them. Metal tags Barnes had carried a lifetime, not knowing they were there. Steve held the first one, the standard dog tag: Barnes, James B. Their Barnes. The Russians’ Winter Soldier. The Olds’ Jimmy. Steve’s Bucky. It had his ID number, religion (C for Catholic), his blood type and Brooklyn address.

Bucky had the second one. The special one. On the second tag there had been a blank space at the bottom, and the back was smooth. This was where it had been engraved with the needle-like scratching. Rogers watched his face.

“Bucky, do you remember telling him to write it?”

“Damn. This is, damn.” He closed the tag in his hand like looking at it hurt.

“Hey—Buck. However it happened. Just tell me.” He purposely put on the world’s most annoying hangdog expression, then tapped Bucky on the chin and said “I’ve waited 70 years, I can wait a feeew yeeears looonger.”

“You are such a jackass.” He looked for a second at Steve. “Steve, it was the last time, the final time…I was me. I was completely me. This thing I wrote, it was the very last thing I ever said before I committed my first murder. You know what I mean. Not as a soldier in a uniform, a murder. When I killed Jerzy, then saw his son, things came together for me, and it’s not over yet. There are so many things I wish I could tell you but we’ve been through too much right now. I want quiet. I want peace, and love, and Hershey bars and spooning. Maybe what comes after spooning? But we also have to get through some of the past stuff.” He turned up the corners of his mouth at Steve. This was going to come out, and now was a good time.

Bucky continued “come here.” Steve looked a little worried. “Don’t be worried. It’s a good thing. I have a question for you. When we were young, did I call you anything other than Steve?”

“Well, huh. I guess maybe Stevie once or twice, like when we first got to know each other, young, you know? But if somebody asked me if that was a nickname, I’d say no. You just called me Steve, or Rogers. When I outranked you, as was only good and proper, Captain.” His whole face split into a grin. “Punk came up. Maybe Captain Asshole, but we had been fighting. Over girls. If you can believe it. Let’s agree our days of fighting about girls can be over, yeah?”

“Roger that. So, it was me, then. Here’s what I mean to say before you see the tag. I need you to know that even as they, they, erased me, I still realized you were a target. Probably because you rush headlong into danger with no backup, you never watch your left flank properly and you’ll use a prop shield worth three dollars if you have to. I didn’t address it to you. I addressed the message for the best possible chance it would reach you. It was more important than anything that you read this so I maximized chance of delivery.” He held out the tag.

Jerzy had used a seam ripper, sharpened on metal, to carefully scratch the last will and testament of Barnes, James B. He held it so Steve could see:

Scratched on the front: _J._ _Morita, US/107 th/HC_

Steve stared. “I have so many questions, but let’s start with why Morita?” Bucky laughed which made Steve laugh, too.

“Let’s forget the Soviet cyborg aspect for a second.” Steve touched the back of his neck that way he did as he realized he hadn’t thought something through. “Well, I couldn’t just send it to you, you were a celebrity. Do you even know how much mail you got back in our day? The fucking thing was sewn into my arm by a gulag prisoner. There was no telling how’d these could be found: the US government got me back, I was KIA working for the Russians, what if I had to rip them out myself as proof of former identity? This was never gonna be a regular mail call kind of package. How the hell could I get it to you without actually sending _to you?_ It never occurred to me it would be this long. It could have gotten lost in the bottom of some mail bag for all time. Morita had a proper unit, proper address with next of kin, and we were close enough I knew he’d get it and find you to do it. He, uh, we had an understanding. He knew.”

Steve’s eyes took a second to retract back into his head. “He KNEW?”

“He guessed. Remember I told you Halloween night I had full recall of you ripping those stupid shirts? He kept a square of the material for me. Said it was a patch in case mine ripped, but he knew what it was. We agreed we could help out each other. I was different because of, well, you. He looked like the damn enemy even though…

“He was from fucking Fresno!” They finished together, laughing and shaking their heads. He had been a good man. They reflected a moment. A gesture of respect, a moment to remember those lost. Bucky took a little more of his water, and Steve grabbed some milk, and they drank a toast to Jerzy Szymański and Jim Morita. Two good men long gone, that helped keep a piece of their story alive against tremendous odds.

“So that’s why the front. What’s on the back is, more, it’s more about me than you, I guess.”

Bucky very carefully turned over the tag and placed it in Steve’s hand.

On the back: _Stevie: our line never ends_

Steve looked at it. Over, and over again, he tried to imagine the very last part of Bucky fighting for control, to tell him there would never be an end of the line, pal. He would never let go. He didn’t think he would ever see five words that could possibly mean more to him than these.

Steve looked at Barnes and rubbed his fingers over the words etched into the tag. In some way they knew they were listening to a radio only they could hear. “The thing is, you don’t have to. I’m with you ‘til the end of the line, pal.”

“You were the moral compass, the perfect soldier, the ideal American we were all supposed to be. Captain Steven Grant Rogers, professional role model. When they magnified you, they magnified the right guy for the job. No question.” Barnes meant it. He was serious.

“Steve Rogers was my best friend. The missions, when I saw your enormous stupid face leaning over me to undo the fucking restraints, the Howlies. Peggy Carter showing up in that goddamned red dress. The stupid uniform, ALL OF IT. I understood that Steve wasn’t mine. Couldn’t be.”

Bucky looked up towards the ceiling, away from Steve. There was no point in trying to deny it had to be said. For God’s sake, it was so important it was the last thing he believed he’d ever tell him. Buck couldn’t see him, or hear him, or breathe quite right until he said it. “The times I stopped the fights. When we were freezing our asses off in Brooklyn. Your ma. Day I told you I was shipping out. When you sketched me in our apartment. The mornings I’d look through your sketch book to see if you had drawn me. The day I thought you had been drawing me, I saw you with your book, and that night I saw you were drawing a woman who was sitting on a bench reading a book…and I felt it. I told you I didn’t want you cramping my style so I went out and got wasted and danced until 3 in the morning. That was the day I realized I could be jealous over you. I bet you didn’t know about that one, huh?”

Steve didn’t shake his head, although it was news to him. This was the most Bucky had ever said on the topic of feelings. Steve stayed still.

“You don’t know, you didn’t know, that like you call me Bucky, that’s who I am to you. But for me, when you were, in here,” he tapped his head and took an enormous breath, “for me you were Stevie. I still think of you that way. My Stevie. But you got so, uh, un-Stevie-like I couldn’t say it again except when I needed to. Things like, well, Peggy Carter. I told myself she had Steve, but not Stevie.

“I knew I’d never really leave Department X alive. Not alive as a human. I knew they were throwing me into the deepest pit of hell and I would be a monster that might never be worthy of love again. I told myself no matter how far down I went, the line never ended. Because it was still attached at the top to you, who weighed 98 pounds soaking wet and could get an F4 just by walking past a recruitment station. That guy—he was mine.” He finally turned back around so Steve could see his face.

Steve had leaned against the arm of the recliner, eyes closed, so that his forehead was very close to Bucky’s. He couldn’t stand the thought of looking at him in this moment. He heard the day of the surgery. He heard how they had deliberately stuck their hands in the bloody stump of his missing arm, kicked him, tortured him, forced him to abuse, and abused him. They erased him and froze him and purposely gave him a deadly weapon of an arm _knowing_ it hurt him more than any normal body was designed to handle and left it that way because he was a machine and machines have no feelings or rights.

“You know, Buck, I thought I called Sam in for you. I never knew they had called Sam in for me. I thought he was for you.” Steve looked remorseful at his own myopia. “I was so relieved you were able to tell George where his father had ended up, and that you said the prayer he needed. I was so glad they went in and lightened some of your arm. There’s other stuff that may help even more in the near future. I thought I could sit on the chair, Bucky. I really did.” Rogers took in a deep breath. “We had a screen watching the Russian dialogue. Some of them didn’t even call you a person, Bucky. They said ‘it’ or ‘the Asset.’ I told Mr. Miles I wanted to kill everyone that had done this to you, but of course they’re gone. Mostly though, mostly what I wanted was to hold you. Any way you’d let me. I couldn’t stand hearing them describe you and do this to you but have no way to protect you. Sam had to remove me because, uh, first I threw up everything I’ve ever eaten since basic training. Then I chewed an entire pack of Esther’s minty gum. But that’s not the real reason.”

“Then what was the real reason?”

“Bruce was monitoring brainwaves and Tony was working as fast as he could to do a bunch of things with pressing and removing wires so that the worst of your flashbacks were becoming memories that served a purpose. They reminded you of who you are and what you’ve learned, without making you feel as much fear or disgust. It will always be a part of you, but Tony thinks he did his best to keep you staying Bucky, or Barnes, but with a more balanced set of machines in the cyborg part. Your arm, your nerves and your brain should be improved. He worked like a maniac and he said to me he was doing some the toughest work of his life. I believe him; I really do. Tony was doing right by you. There was one thing…Buck, there was something I couldn’t handle. Um, I did something that changed their results and Sam took me out of the room.”

“What did you do?”

“It was part of your flashback where you see bright lights, and they force a guard in your mouth. They’re going to just do it regardless of the pain. You were crying, and they were erasing your memory while they attached your arm. Do you remember?”

“I do. It’s strange, Steve, but I remember it in real life and in the session with Stark but they’re not compatible fragments. It’s like, it’s like when you take a movie of something. I both remember it happening, and I can also see a movie, but the movie goes blank and I feel things that I can’t see. What happened in the session?”

“You whispered ‘Don’t erase Stevie.’ You begged them please, to not erase you by erasing me.” Steve put one hand over the right side of his face. It looked as though he was grieving, something had happened that he would never recover from. “I knew I was supposed to stay clear of you while they did it but I didn’t even know I was off the stool until Sam and Lucky dragged me away. They helped me watch and hear the rest from the partitioned waiting area with a window and speakers.”

“You kissed me, didn’t you? You did.”

“Like your life depended on it. I sure as hell felt like my life did. Then I told you the one thing that would prove it was me.”

“You told me you were there until the end of the line.”

“You got it.”

“Tony threw you out. That was what I felt, in the deepest part of my brain where they had let me have one night of painkillers to regenerate cells. I felt you. It smelled like you. That’s why I like your shirts. They smell like you. When you touched me while he had the wire I felt you. I could taste you. It’s part of the memory now because you kissed me. It reminded me they allowed me one night of painkillers after reattaching my arm. The one night the Russians took away my pain was the night I believed I could smell you.”

“I have a smell to you?”

“Yeah,” Bucky nodded. “You smell like _you_.” He explained about fragments being real, if it smelled like medicine, the fresh blood. “But you smell like you the most right here.” He took his right hand and gently brushed the place on Steve where the neck meets the jaw. “Now that I’m shorter than you I smell you there all the time.”

“What do I smell like?”

Buck considered. “Like this feels.” He brought his face as close as he could into Steve’s face. _My Stevie_ , mission said. Loud and clear. He used his lips to trace from his pulse points to the jaw, and then onto his mouth. Without shame, without explanation, without wondering what would happen next Steve and Bucky kissed. They kissed each other and it was nothing like they had dreamed it would be. Barnes was partially immobilized in a ridiculous hospital recliner half out of his mind with relief and medication; Steve was eight inches too tall and wearing pants with flying pigs on them. But mostly, it was because occasionally, the universe in its infinite wisdom has the foresight to not let us imagine perfect things so that when they happen the people involved don’t have time to somehow ruin it.

They kissed so lightly it was almost torturous to avoid the deep and desperate kisses, deep kisses that made every inch of skin warm and alive, sometimes too deep, too much; back to very gentle touching on the hair, the eyebrows, the neck, silly things like eyelashes or the tip of the nose. Suddenly very serious places like earlobes. That was a surprise to both of them. Not a bad surprise. Sometimes Steve would whisper, “Is this okay?” before moving his hands. Bucky made the wonderful discovery that “tell me what you want” are unconditionally the five sexiest words in the English language. The temples, the collarbone, the pads of Steve’s fingers that were no longer a sinful transgression. The way Bucky’s jaw felt along Steve’s thumbs. He couldn’t imagine all the times he had drawn it yet never once been allowed to touch it.

After a few minutes, which a quick check of the microwave clock showed to be an hour and a half, they realized they were going to spend countless hours doing this anyway, so maybe they should stop and open their present.

They got settled in on the couch/chair for the night then opened the small cardboard box addressed to both of them. Steve smiled, shook his head and opened it up.

_Dear Mr. Barnes and Mr. Rogers,_

_Please accept these as a gift on the occasion of Bucky’s surgical recovery. Jimmy, I cannot thank you enough for what you went through to help me know what happened to my father. In his final moments, he felt no pain and what he most wished for was granted. This means more to me than you can possibly know._

_The inscription on the dog tags left in your shoulder were meant to be kept private. As you are no doubt aware, in SI that merely ensured the information would travel at twice the normal speed. If you boys haven’t already had a discussion concerning the handkerchief as a memento of a loved one in our time, you really ought to._

_I have taken great care to make certain these are plausibly deniable, should you desire. But boys…nobody will believe you._

_Fondly as always,_

_Yours,_

_G. Miles_

Bucky opened the silk squares. Near the bottom, in the middle, was a metallic shield.  That metallic circle was enclosed by a circle of blue thread. In the center of the metallic circle a red star was stitched. A raised line of blue thread extended from the middle of the right side of the circle, wrapped around the edge of the cloth, continued across the back of the handkerchief, carefully came back to the front, then rejoined the shield opposite from where it had started. Mr. Miles had taken great pains that the blue stitches were both touching the circle and continuing the entire back of the pocket square.

Because some lines never end.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ********
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you to my beta Aimily, to Owlet for the idea of having a tailor in Avengers Tower, and the fantastic readers who cheered me on every chapter of the way. You are peanut butter cookie PLUS hot chocolate- grade mission assists.
> 
> Thank you to my husband and other family, who once said "you're good at your dayjob; but do NOT give up writing!"
> 
> George, Eduardo, Steve, Bucky, Esther, DaNeesha, Bruce, Tony and Pepper: in some way, large or small, Jerzy's stitches in his own time have saved a precious reminder of a better, kinder future for these nine. His son George has a wonderful job surrounded by people he loves, Bruce and Tony have had a chance to work on technology that will improve Barnes' life, and every day there is a little more Bucky and a little less Asset. Starting at the end of June, you'll see what that future brings when the Avengers agree to help fight against one of the world's most pernicious and evil Hydra cells: ISIL. They'll all be back for THE EYE OF A NEEDLE, summer 2016.
> 
> Thank you AO3, this is a wonderful place to be a writer and reader. 
> 
> \--Aireagoir


End file.
